


Fake Marriage AU

by Feynite, Little_Lotte



Series: Sharp and Shiny [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe- Freeform, Looking Glass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte
Summary: Aili Lavellan just came to observe the conclave for her clan, but an act of kindness gets her roped into a fake relationship with a very strange stranger in order to avoid the advances of the fabled Herald of Andraste.
Relationships: OC/OC, Uthvir/Lavellan
Series: Sharp and Shiny [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/524539
Kudos: 12





	1. Spouse

The great conclave that is supposedly going to decide the fate of mages, and arguably a large portion of Thedas, is set to begin tomorrow.

It is still more than a day away on foot, and already the sky is growing dark above the mountains. It has been a long and rather expensive journey, especially considering the meager contents of Aili’s coin purse, which had largely been eaten up by the fare to cover her passage from the Free Marches. She strongly suspects that the greasy boat captain in Ostwick had gouged her on the price, but she had not really been in a position to haggle, since the crewmen of the other ships heading to Ferelden had taken one look at the tattoos on her face and sent her packing. 

The long and short of it ends up being that it is almost nighttime and Aili finds herself a lone mage elf on a human road that she does not know, which is likely peppered with rogue Templars and bandits and other unsavory sorts. Tired and hungry. Vulnerable.

Which is why, when she comes upon what looks to be a barn that has been hastily converted into an inn at some point in the last few years, she decides that stopping for the evening seems like a prudent choice. Not that walking into a building filled with potentially drunk, nervous humans is completely free from peril either, but at least it will be relatively warm and well-lit, and there is a better chance that someone with compassion or morality will come to her aid. Hopefully.

There is also the possibility of overhearing other people’s conversations, and gleaning information on how the peace talks are likely to go. Which is another objective of her mission. To not only bear witness to the outcome of the Conclave, but to try and parse out which way the wind is blowing in the court of public opinion. Her people tend to isolate themselves, but the fate of the mages is undeniably linked to the fate of the Keepers. And the fate of the Keepers will determine the fate of the Dalish as a whole.

Keeper Deshanna had been…less than convinced. Not that she did not think it was important, of course, she had simply refused to admit that there could be a benefit to having one of their own attend the Conclave. Too much risk to one of their people for information that they could easily find out later from the villages friendly enough to trade with them. And far too hazardous to gamble the freedom of their First.

Yet, here she is anyway. 

Despite the numerous objections, Aili had been the obvious choice. She is fluent in both Common and Orlesian. Young enough to survive the long solitary journey across land and sea. Old enough to cautious with her trust and her coin. And she can easily blend into the ranks of either the mages or the servants at the Conclave, so long as either her hood or her hair is concealing her vallaslin.

The inn is noisy and full to bursting, and Aili is not sure where the owner is planning to lodge even half of them. There is a large woman behind the bar with very red hair and a face that is nearly overrun with freckles, and two harried looking elves racing around to the handful of crowded roughhewn tables in an attempt to keep agitated patrons from tearing the walls down.

She manages to elbow her way over to the counter and procure a hunk of bread and some cheese to pair with the dried meat and apples in her pack, as well as a mug of cider to wash it all down with. She’s tired enough that the thought of a chair, even the hard, grubby ones of this particular establishment, are a nigh irresistible temptation. But even if there was a vacant one to be found, it would require her to sit at a table full of strange rowdy humans, so she ends up heading towards a dark corner instead. Someplace to lean her back where she can survey the goings on in the rest of the inn.

Aili gets about two-thirds of the way over to her intended roost when she catches sight of another elf making their way through the crowded dining area.

Not that seeing another elf travelling alone is such an odd thing, perhaps, but this one has a certain…aura about them. They are wearing a long dark cloak with the hood up, but even so, it is obvious to anyone with two eyes and half a brain that they are wearing full plate armor beneath it. And it is obvious to _her_ , that the red markings scrawled across their face are the same as the ones her mother bears, even when they are being obscured by hoods and shadows. Andruil’s Vallaslin.

Another clan sent a representative?

Before she can even build up a decent amount of speculation on the subject, a burly templar jostles past them, likely on a mission to seek out more drink, and their cowl is knocked back from their face just as they are sent stumbling into an especially raucous table of what appears to be a few knights and heir vassals. If she had to make an assumption at a glance, she’d probably say that they all seem to have more money than sense, and appear to have reached a particularly disgusting level of drunkenness.

For their own part, the recently accosted elf looks as though they would like nothing so much as to grab the man who had bumped into them by the throat and toss him clean out a window. Their expression is dark. Irritated and edged, and barely containing the urge to lash out. Common sense seems to stop them, however, even though there is a certain wildness lingering about their eyes.

Their features are quite striking, really.

She apparently is not the only one to have noticed this, as one of the patrons sitting at the table makes a move to paw at them, beaming and jovial, and perhaps assuming that this beautiful stranger had careened into their midst on purpose. The elf in question glances around at the number of people gathered around the table, possibly assessing whether or not they could bloody this group of idiots and make it the door unscathed. Aili cannot quite make out the words they are saying, but they seem polite and forced, and do not appear to be of much use in deterring the human from attempting to tug them down onto his chair.

Having a large mug of cider splashed in his face seems to deter him well enough, though.

"I’m _so_ sorry, Ser!" Aili exclaims with an affectation of dismay, reaching over to not-so-gently wipe at the human’s face with a somewhat dirty napkin from the table, "The long day of walking was just _so_ tiring. I’m afraid it seems to have made me a bit clumsy."

She thinks she hears the recently accosted elf snort in amusement, but she doesn’t have the chance to shoot a grin in their direction before she finds herself being roughly pulled into one of the other patron’s laps.

"I’m sure Mason isn’t upset with you in the least, are you Mason? There’s a good chap," the man who grabbed her bellows directly against the side of her face. Fanning her nose and mouth with hot, moist, alcohol-scented breath that nearly makes her gag. He is brown-haired and barrel-chested, with square-cut, regular features. Not really all that unappealing, for a human. Though if his hands keep wandering in the direction they seem to be headed, she is going to be sorely tempted to break his nose.

"After all, who could stay mad at a cute little trick like you, eh?" he coos at her with what is probably meant to be a dashing grin.

Aili does her best to force a smile.

"You are…very forbearing, Ser," she commends him in a strained voice, "Me and my friend didn’t mean to disturb you, but since there doesn’t seem to be any real damage done, we’ll just be on our way, now."

She struggles to rise, but finds herself quite thoroughly pinned against the stranger’s chest.

"Oh, come now," he chuckles warmly into her neck, "There is no need to be coy. You’ve got one of the oldest trades in the world. You look clean enough, and your boldness in approaching us directly is hardly off-putting. I’d say maybe try for a more subtle lure next time, yes? Might be a trifle embarrassing subject for a less virile man. But I suppose all this talk of peace has got your kind a bit desperate. No shame in earning an honest sovereign where you can."

"W-what?" Aili stammers, genuinely confused, tossing a worried glance at the elf she’d helped earlier. They frown at the human, but don’t seem quite set on moving against him just yet. Possibly weighing the odds again. "I…I’m not looking for any sort of work, Ser. I’m just here with my friend. For the conclave. Like everybody else."

"Of course," the human hums blithely, "There is plenty of work for your friend, too. Everyone at this table probably wouldn’t mind helping the pair of you out. Would we boys? That’s right. Might even earn yourselves a little extra if you know what you’re about."

" _Listen,_ you-" Aili begins, annoyed and possibly just the tiniest bit afraid, but before she can comment on where exactly this self-absorbed prick can shove his coin, she finds herself being pulled out of the nobleman’s clutches and into the arms of the mysterious elf who had gotten her into this mess. An impressive feat, since they don’t actually look like they could physically overpower him -they’re only a few inches taller than she is, and not especially bulky- but maybe that cloak and armor is concealing a lot more muscle tone than she’d thought. 

"We are hired swords, not camp followers… _Ser_ ," they explain. Their tone is light, but Aili gets the distinct impression that they are holding in a significant amount of disdain. "And I would appreciate it if you did not distress my wife."

"Your wife?" the man blinks at them.

"Your _wife_?" Aili echoes in a low hiss.

They smile down at her with manufactured fondness, as well as what appears to be no small amount of amusement at her reaction.

"Ah…y-yes," she manages to stammer out a few seconds later, glancing over at the group of drunken noblemen, who still seem to be sizing both of them up like hunks of meat, "This is my…beloved…spouse. Who I am travelling with. Willingly."

"But…" the keg-shaped man who had grabbed her begins, clearly puzzled, "Aren’t you both women? Chantry doesn’t allow that sort of thing, right? So, you can’t be married."

"Don’t look much like mercenaries, either," another man offers with a scrutinizing frown.

"I…am not a woman," her impromptu partner answers stiffly.

"Wait… So, that means you’re a man?" the noble sputters, looking them up and down, "But your features are so delicate…"

Aili feels the elf’s hands tighten around her, sharp gauntlets just beginning to prick through her leathers, and she decides that now is definitely the time to vacate the situation.

"Well, regardless of all that, we are married," she forces out, making moves to shift herself and her new associate away from the table of humans, " _Happily_ married. And out on the road to reach the conclave, where the rest of our…mercenary friends, are waiting for us to join them. We’re sorry to have bothered you. And for any confusion. Have a nice…evening. Drinking."

This gives rise to a series of grumblings from the nobles and knights and whatever else they might be outside of slovenly and human, but none of them try to get up to stop them from retreating. Mercifully.

"…You are a terrible liar," the mysterious elf informs her once they have both gotten a safe distance away from the table.

"I wasn’t exactly expecting to find myself married to a complete stranger in the middle of a conversation," she snaps, "If you don’t like the way I handled things, you can fend for yourself next time."

"You assume I am ungrateful," they note, arching a brow at her, "I can assure you that is not the case. I was simply taking not of your…unique style of rendering aid."

"Well, sorry if my assistance didn’t live up to your exacting standards, I didn’t have a lot of time to think of anything better," Aili replies sourly, "I suppose the next time I see someone in distress, I should simply walk over and announce our marriage."

To her surprise, they laugh, not seeming offended in the least.

"Depending on the situation, it might not be the worst idea you could come up with. Especially if the person you aim to save is anything like you," they smirk. "So, do I get the privilege of learning my lovely wife’s name?"

They toss a wink at her, and she makes a face at them in response.

"…I’m Aili," she tells them after a moment’s pause, "And I’m not your wife."

"And I am Uthvir," they return, still smirking, "And I am deeply wounded by your rejection of my suit."

"I’m sure you’ll survive," she says with a roll of her eyes, "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if there is still a room in this dump I can rent for the night."

"No point, I’m afraid," Uthvir says, growing more amused by the minute, "I purchased the last one myself when I came in."

Aili heaves a sigh.

"Well, it certainly won’t be the first time I’ve had to sleep outdoors," she says tiredly, turning to head back towards the inn’s entrance, "Dareth shiral, Lethallen."

"I would not advise that," they tell her, moving to block her path and shooting a furtive glance back at the table full of potential harassers, "Some of our recent… _acquaintances_ might be a bit put out over their sudden lack of evening entertainment. If they see you leaving on your own, they might come to suspect that we are not actually wed."

"We aren’t," Aili reminds them bluntly.

"That is beside the point," Uthvir insists with a dismissive wave of their hand, "Fishing you out of their clutches will have been a total waste on my end, if you intend to go wandering right back into them."

"Fine," she huffs out, "Then where do you suggest I sleep? Since you seem to have all the answers."

They stare at her for a long moment, pensive, before finally letting out a long grating breath.

"I suppose it would remiss of me if I let my ‘wife’ fend for herself against a horde of potential brigands," they say with a façade of nonchalance, though there is still a subtle uneasiness in their continence. A sharpness lingering behind their eyes. "Under the circumstances, you…may stay with me. If you like."

Her eyes go wide at the suggestion, and she takes a minute to do some considering of her own. On the one hand, spending the night with _this_ stranger hardly seems more advisable than spending the evening out in the woods and risk being jumped by _other_ strangers. But they seem genuine enough, and they did not leave her to the mercy of drunken nobles, even when they could have. And besides which, they are one of the People, and while their vallaslin does not earn them all of her trust, it grants them enough of it for this.

"…Alright," she nods at them hesitantly, "Though I feel I should give you fair warning that if you decide to kill me and steal all my possessions, you’re likely going to end up disappointed."

"Noted," Uthvir replies with a quirk of their brow and a sweeping arm gesture as the usher her in the direction of their room.

There is only one bed.

Of course, there is only one bed. She does not know why the though had not occurred to her before, but it seems like it should have been obvious given the size and…rustic nature of the inn they are staying at. She stares at it accusingly, a narrow and slightly moldering thing, likely padded with straw that hasn’t been changed in more than a month.

There is no way both of them could manage to sleep on it comfortably without getting…close.

"I can sleep on the floor," Aili offers, "It’s not so different from an aravel, and your coin paid for the room. Which…I can reimburse you for my share of it, if you like… Or…well…at least some of it."

"No need," Uthvir waves her off, "Consider your share of the room as repayment for the drink you sacrificed to deter my would-be assailants. As for the sleeping arrangements, there is no need for you to be uncomfortable. I wanted the room more than the bed. Feel free to use it at your discretion, I will be passing the night in the chair."

"You’re going to sleep in the chair?" she echoes doubtfully, casting a glance at the spindly piece of furniture crammed into the corner next to a lopsided table.

"I find I do not need much in the way of sleep," they explain with a shrug, "A few hours of light dozing will see me through the next day easily enough."

"That…does not sound particularly healthy," she returns with a slight frown. 

"I promise that I am quite healthy," they smirk, showing off a hint of what appears to be a set of very sharp teeth, "I could give you a demonstration, if neither of us plan to use the bed for anything else in the near future."

"I’m fine with simply taking you at your word," Aili snorts, "And if you really aren’t going to do anything with the bed other than some sort of exercise, then I’m going to sleep in it. If you really don’t mind."

They arch a brow at her as though she has said something strange.

"I do not mind," they assure her after a moment’s pause.

She gives them an odd look of her own, but decides to let things be, setting her pack down and digging around for her sleep shirt. She doesn’t think much of going through her usual evening routine until she’s out of her armor and pulling her tunic off. Her new friend makes a sound from the corner with the chair where they’ve settled themselves, and she turns to glance inquisitively back at them.

"You don’t have much in the way of inhibitions, do you?" they wonder, blatantly staring at the bared skin of her chest and stomach, "Or is this meant to be an invitation?"

"I…already said you could have the bed if you wanted it," she reminds them, confused, "But I’m not sure what you think I should be embarrassed about, exactly. I don’t know how your clan does things, but we have to change clothes in front of each other all the time. Unless…I’m making you uncomfortable somehow?"

"Not in the least," Uthvir hums in reply, eyes still warm and roving, "So long as you don’t expect me to offer you a similar display."

"If you want to sleep in stabby, uncomfortable armor, that is entirely your own business," Aili shrugs, finally tugging on the loose billowy shirt she prefers for sleeping and climbing into the bed. "Good night."

"Sleep well," Uthvir offers quietly in return.

She lays down, curls under the thin blanket, and presses her eyes shut. Uthvir is quiet, and the room is dark, but somehow she can still feel them there. A strangely shifting presence on the edge of her senses. A prickle at the back of her neck. Almost as though the Veil is thin around them, and she can feel the magic of the Fade trickling into the room. Unsettling.

"Are you really just going to crouch over there like a gargoyle all night?" Aili grumbles from half way in her pillow.

"I believe I said that was my intention," Uthvir drawls from their chair, "Do you need me to tuck you in?"

"No," she grunts in reply, "but it would be great if you could stop…lurking. It’s creepy."

"And what, exactly, would you prefer?" they wonder.

"I don’t know," she whines, "Maybe just lay down like a normal person?"

"If this is your attempt at being alluring, I must say, it is very strange," Uthvir says.

"I just want to sleeeep," Aili moans, "I don’t care if that means we have to share the bed. We’re both sorta small, we’ll fit. Just…stop… _looming_."

"But I enjoy looming," Uthvir says with an air of distinct amusement.

"Pleeeeeaaaaaassssee," she whimpers plaintively, "I’m so tired…"

"You are that eager to share your bed with a stranger?" they ask doubtfully.

"S’just sleeping," Aili mumbles, "You don’t really seem the type to murder me just for fun. Probably. …Are you?"

"Not without sufficient cause," Uthvir assures her. They go quiet for a moment, and then she hears the sounds of faint footfalls making their way across the floor. Her mind is a bit bleary at the moment, but it strikes her as odd that they are capable of moving so quietly in all that gear. The bed shifts, and she can feel the solid weight of them beside her. The sound of their breathing in a steady even rhythm in the dark.

Like sharing an aravel back home.

"Thank you," she sighs out.

"Go to sleep," Uthvir instructs stiffly.

Aili curls further into the blankets, tucks her face beneath her arm, and does as she is told.

~

They are gone by the time she wakes, even though it is still early enough for the rosy light of dawn to be fighting its way through the grubby windows of the inn. Aili doesn’t think too much of it, other than a vague regret that she didn’t get to properly thank them for sharing their room. As luck would have it, the men they who had attempted to buy them for the evening also seem to have vacated the premises, and she sets out towards the village of Haven and the Conclave with only the slightest edge of nervousness settling along her spine. The anticipation of long-awaited excitement about to come to fruition.

The pace she sets for herself is leisurely. It will be much easier to mingle into the crowd once the talks have already begun and people are distracted. She takes her time trying to locate a few deer paths through the mountains as she goes. Escape routes, in case things get ugly.

When the mountain explodes, Aili finds herself being thrown several feet down a steep slope and slamming headlong into a tree.

She wakes in a cell, but is released after minimal questioning by a pair of angry human women. Apparently, the Divine is dead, along with most of the people who attended the Conclave. There is a huge tear in the sky and some human fell out of the Fade with a mark on their hand. She was never their prime suspect, but they are clearly grasping at straws.

She sticks around for a few days. She has a twisted ankle, and her head wound leaves her with occasional bouts of lingering dizziness. There are Templar here, which she is not particularly thrilled about, but there are other mages to seek refuge with, and people who could be helped with her magic and her knowledge of wild medical herbs. She’s still in training, but she has more experience than most of the human mages, who have barely traveled farther than the confines of their Circles.

It is not until Aili has been working for the fledgling Inquisition for well over a week that she finally runs into the fabled ‘Herald of Andraste.’

"I say, you there! Girl!" a voice calls from behind her, and she winces as the memory of pungent ale-breath rises to the surface of her mind, "Come over here and take my horse to the stables. Make sure the stable hands take a bit more care with his tack this time, won’t you? Can’t have the Herald of Andraste showing up someplace looking like an average peon, now, can we? No. Hurry back with something for me to drink and there might even be a copper or two in it for you."

"Ser, I’m afraid you have me confused for someone else…" she says, doing her best to keep her head lowered. Hoping that he won’t recognize her face.

"Nonsense!" he insists, "I’m sure I’ve seen you around here before. Hard to forget a pretty little thing like you. Well. You know. For an elf. I’m sure you do well enough among your own kind, eh? Even with all the strange…"

He makes a vague gesture towards his forehead.

"I’m _Dalish_ ," Aili explains frowningly. 

"Oh," he says with a careless shrug, "I suppose that explains the strange armor and the lack of shoes, too. Jolly good of you to set aside all that heathen nonsense to come and serve the Inquisition. I’m Richard Trevelayn, as I’m certain you already knew, Herald of Andraste."

"I’m…Aili," she grates out slowly, "And I’m not a servant or a stable hand. I’m a mage."

"Yes, well, don’t worry, I’m not the sort to hold that against anyone," he smiles at her, "That’s what we’ve got Tempars here for, right? You just do your work like usual and there won’t be any trouble."

"I was trying to," Aili snaps, finally looking him straight in the eyes.

"I say!" Trevelyan exclaims, "Aren’t you… Yes! You’re that strange woman from the inn who threw cider all over poor old Mason. …Weren’t you travelling with your husband?" 

"I…uh…lost them?" Aili tries, edging away from him carefully.

"Well, that is just…shocking, isn’t it?" he says, moving forward to crowd her again, "Yes, I can see it in your eyes. A real blow. Well then. Never let it be said that the Herlad of Andraste was hard hearted. No indeed. If you ever need a good cry or…you know…any other sort of comforting, you just come to me, all right? A woman needs a good strong shoulder every now and then, doesn’t she?"

"Well…that’s…just…" Aili stammers, disgusted, and offended, and altogether uncertain of how to extract herself from the situation without causing a scene.

"Aili!" a voice rings out from a few feet away. She turns around just in time for a figure in red to sweep her off her feet. Spinning her around twice before setting her down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "My darling wife. I thought I’d lost you."

"Uthvir!" Aili blurts, completely blindsided, and blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. "What are you…" she casts a wary glance at their audience, "I mean, I’m so glad to see you! When we were separated, I was certain the blast from the Breach had killed you. I was…inconsolable. For days."

"What’s this?" Uthvir asks wrapping their arms more firmly around her and smiling, thoroughly amused, "No kiss to greet your wayward spouse?"

"O-of course…" she forces out a reply, her own smile freezing on her face.

She cups their face in her hands gently, leaning up to claim a brief, chaste kiss. She pinches their ear in discreet retaliation. Uthvir winks, unrepentant.

"I’m…very happy for you," Richard grumbles out before walking away with his horse, casting the occasional glance back at them as though he still thinks there is something off about the two of them.

"Don’t tell me you’re staying to help the Inquisition, too?" Aili hisses out as soon as the Herald of Andraste is out of hearing range.

"Naturally," Uthvir smirks, "And it seems to be greatly to your advantage."

"Yes," Aili sighs, rolling her eyes towards the heavens, "Lucky me."


	2. A Stray Arrow

It is strange to admit, but Aili has found that her role in the Inquisition is not so different than the one she holds in her own clan as First. Although, the reason behind her rise to prominence is markedly different.

There are many who seem to find conversing with the Herald of Andraste…unpleasant. Not that she can really blame them. Richard Trevelyan somehow manages to be overly solicitous and incredibly offensive all at once, whenever she has to spend any amount of time talking to him. Which, unfortunately, seems to be happening more and more, since she is apparently one of the few people capable of having a conversation with him without making some attempt to shove him down a mountainside and call it an accident.

Not that Uthvir had been acting without provocation.

And she certainly wasn’t about to complain about the insufferable human being bedridden for a few days while Solas and a few of the other mages seemed to take their sweet time deliberating how to mend a broken ankle. If anything, things had run much smoother around Haven, without the pompous ass tripping her up and trying to show her the ‘proper’ way to accomplish whatever task she had decided to undertake. 

Luckily for her, though she is loath to admit it, having Uthvir hovering around her like some sort of spiky red wasp seems to deter Richard from stepping too far over the line of her tolerance. Not that they don’t have duties of their own to see to, of course, but they have a peculiar knack for showing up whenever her patience is wearing thin. Glaring and looking especially stabby and intimidating until Trevelyan suddenly remembers that he has some urgent matter to attend to on the far side of camp. Giving both Uthvir and their impressive array of cutlery plenty of breathing room.

Appreciation for their timeliness does not quite make up for the fact that she is now stuck in the awkward position of having to pretend that she is their wife, however.

Fortunately, she is not often called upon to make overt displays of affection. A few kisses on the cheek here and there and a bit of loose hand holding seems to be enough to convince most people. Uthvir appears to take some perverse pleasure in picking her up on occasion. Despite, or perhaps even because of, the way she squawks in alarm every time they do.

They seem to enjoy getting a rise out of her, but they are not a bad sort. Usually.

Honestly, the most bizarre thing to contend with has been their living arrangements. As a married couple, they had been given a tiny cottage to share by themselves. She had felt a little guilty about that, as many of the other families here have had to cram themselves into tents, but she supposes that most of the other prominent members of the Inquisition have also been granted the better sleeping quarters that Haven has to offer. So, it is not as though they have been handed any _real_ preferential treatment.

There is still only one bed, though.

She is more than used to sharing space. Even sharing a sleeping place, come to it. And Uthvir is…not _precisely_ a stranger anymore. But they seem to have some very mixed feelings about their current situation. And she cannot say that things have not gotten tense between them here and there.

They insist on setting wards around the windows and doorways every evening- no matter how late it may be when they both finally manage to stagger home. Strange intricate spellwork that she has never seen preformed before, even by a Keeper. Although, that is most likely because a lot of it seems to involve blood magic.

Naturally, she had found that a trifle worrying. Which had led to a singularly uncomfortable conversation about them potentially summoning some sort of demon into their bedroom. Which had ended very promptly when Uthvir would only answer her concern with a very sharp, unsettling smile.

She had decided to go do her laundry after that. By herself. At three in the morning.

Uthvir does not seem to need to do their laundry for some reason. Or bathe. Aili has never even seen them remove the vast majority of their armor. They don’t smell bad, though, so she doesn’t have a reason to complain. It just strikes her as being very odd.

Perhaps they simply wait until she is asleep to take care of such things. They do not seem to need sleep any more than they need to clean their clothes. Every so often they share the bed with her, spikes and all, but she can tell that they are still awake. More often than not, though, they simply set their wards and settle themselves into a large wing-backed armchair for the evening. Reading, or sharpening weapons, or even just folding their arms across their chest and folding into themselves in some sort of deep meditation.

She’s not sure what to make of them, to be perfectly honest.

They bear vallaslin as plainly as she does, and they speak Elvhen with a fluidity that she is, quite frankly, envious of. But they do not seem eager to discuss their past or their clan. They do not offer prayers or offerings to their shared gods.

Aili finds herself burning with curiosity, but she is not one to pry open a door that someone seems to be intent on keeping shut. Perhaps their Keeper had banished them for using blood magic, and the pain of losing their clan is still fresh. They do not…comport themselves in the manner of a typical First. But maybe their clan placed a greater value on hunting than most others. Devoted to the great huntress, perhaps. 

Uthvir is weird and prickly and insufferable by turns. Also, funny and teasing. Clever. Skilled in battle. With their own strange brand of honor and nobility that doesn’t quite seem to match any code she has ever known for it.

She wants to know them better, she thinks. She wants to be found worthy of their trust. They have an air of mystery about them, like a mural in one of the Elvhen ruins she is always so keen to explore. On the surface, there are vines and dirt and nonsensical scrawling. But with care and patience- and an earnest hunger for knowledge and understanding- beauty can often be revealed.

Besides, Aili is more or less stuck with them for the foreseeable future. She might as well try to make the best of things.

The Hinterlands are a mess.

People are freezing and staving and desperate. Mages and Templars alike are running amok in the hills and caves. Bears and bandits everywhere they turn. Red lyrium, tears in the Veil, and demons terrorizing the common folk. A sodding _High Dragon_ , with all her hatchlings, burning up a good portion of the countryside.

And the tent that she and Uthvir are expected to share is very _very_ small.

"As fond as I am of you, my _dearest_ heart," she grumbles at them one morning on their way out to seal a rift in the southern slopes past the cross roads, "I think our nights might be more restful if you divested yourself of some of your more… _pointy_ bits."

"And what makes you suppose I have any interest in our nights being _restful_?" Uthvir replies with something of a feral grin. It is accompanied by a wink, for some reason.

Aili blinks at them in turn, confused. Frowning in mild disapproval and folding her arms across her chest. Just because _they_ don’t mind going without sleep doesn’t mean _she_ should have to suffer.

She opens her mouth to tell them as much, when a familiar high-pitched whistling cuts through the air, and an arrow nearly clips Varric in the side of his face. He jumps back with a curse, as everyone else in the party reaches for their weapons.

"Templars!" Solas calls out from a few steps behind them, "At least six of them; up on the ridge."

Things quickly dissolve into chaos after that.

Trevelyan and Cassandra make a few half-hearted attempts to reason with the deserters, even as they press forward to act as vanguards for the rest of the party. Solas lobs a few blasts of ice at their combatants, but keeps the majority of his focus on providing barriers for the warriors. Aili is usually meting out damage from afar in a hail of fire and lightning, but there is at least one very good archer making attempts to pick them off from higher ground, so she hangs a little farther back than usual. Throwing up a barrier around her and Varric while he tries to pick off the sharpshooter with Bianca.

Meanwhile, Uthvir, slides across the battlefield as something of a mid-range rogue. Darting in here and there to slip a blade between the gaps in the Templar’s plate armor. Making the occasional jab with their spear, and hurling a spell or two at unsuspecting combatants.

Their movements are quick and fluid. Almost like a dance. They are almost difficult to follow, and perhaps that is why Aili finds herself keeping such a close eye on them when they fight. It must be some sort of magic, she supposes, but she never sees them cast for it. Curiosity and a vague admiration drawing her gaze back to them whenever the battle allows.

For the sake of improving her own skills, of course.

One of the Templars manages to break past Dick, and makes a beeline for Varric and Aili. Uthvir is quick to intervene, dashing across the field much faster than should really be possible in all that armor. They get there just in time to stop the knight from breaking Aili’s shield, but movement to pull him away forces them to turn their back to the archer on the cliffs.

Her mind barely registers the warning whistle through the air. There is not time to cast. To raise another shield. Or even to warn them beyond the frantic blurting of their name.

Aili hurls her entire bodyweight into them, knocking them off balance for a moment. Just enough to shove them out of harm’s way.

She meets their gaze just as the dull thunk of an arrow hitting its target sounds in her ears. She jerks in their arms; startled. Their expression is…difficult to articulate. She opens her mouth to speak, but all that escapes her is a choking gasp.

Her back feels as though it is on fire. The world blurs around her, and the arrow still seems as though it is moving. Burrowing deeper and deeper into the meat of her shoulder. A grinding, burning pain, trying to cook her from the inside out.

It should not be this bad, Aili thinks distantly. She should not be losing focus. Not wanting to wretch all down her tunic. It is just her arm. People live and fight and work without arms all the time. She should be able to… There is no _reason_ for… 

She grips Uthvir’s bicep with her one good hand. Her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her lips part as tears sting the corners of her eyes. She wants to ask them something, but she does not know what. For revenge, or healing, or help. For some end to the sizzling agony in her shoulder.

But then her eyes roll back into her head. The battle around them falls silent. The world melts into blackness, and she knows no more.

~~

Uthvir has woken to a world that, to many, would likely seem a pure nightmare.

But they have always been somewhat at home among nightmares. And it is a curious place, too. A broken place, irrefutably. No world where rampaging hordes of mindless killing machines rise up every so often to try and obliterate all other living things could ever be described otherwise. It is a world of limits. Time limits, mostly. Decay. The unnatural severance of magic from the physical world has created a wasting illness that claims everyone and everything - but not all at once.

Like a poison, it takes time. And it seems to have heightened all of reality in the process, speeding things up. Producing people who must live within the span of a single century. Children who are not children; elves who would not be considered People. _Shemlen._ Quickened children, who are grown in an instant.

Uthvir cannot deny a strange sense of kinship with them. Nor an abiding curiosity of this place. A world of dolls, of unpeople, like them.

They think that must be why they take such an interest in the Dalish woman. At least, at first. That, and, perhaps, boredom. Some lingering sense of basic decency, too. They had seen entitled men reach out to grasp a small and golden elf, and in one lifetime, that is the sort of thing they might have had to simply keep on watching. But here, there is no one to stop them from standing up and doing something about it. Andruil is mad and lost and locked away, along with all the other evanuris. And the politics of this world are a tangled web that seems woefully unprepared for someone of Uthvir's knowledge, age, or aptitude. Lifetimes constrained by centuries would not afford much time to build up a repertoire of skills; though, considering that, Uthvir has seen plenty of Quick Children so far who are more than skilled at killing.

Funny. One might suppose the act would lose its appeal, given its inevitability in this place. 

Regardless, they intervene.

The Dalish woman is named Aili. The brute accosting her is Trevelyan, and like many brutes, he gains more authority than he deserves.

Uthvir prefers trying to understand things through Aili, as it happens. Men like Trevelyan, whether their lives are long or short, are not much of a mystery. But the Dalish elf they have pretended to be married to is much more layered, and presents a great many more intrigues and insights, too. Their interest does not seem to be one way, and Uthvir affords her a degree of safety - so they assume that is why she puts up with them, despite seemingly having no interest in carrying their game of attachments beyond mere appearances. Uthvir's flirtations go ignored or blatantly 'misread'. Sometimes Aili will invite them into her bed, but any efforts to turn the context towards sexual past-times is rebuffed. She seems, at times, to like Uthvir; and at others to feel a deep unease towards them.

They can respect that. They are the sort of person worth feeling uneasy about.

But now...

There is an arrow in Aili's back. An arrow that should have bounced off of their armour and their close-skin barrier, but has instead embedded itself into her flesh. Because she moved to put that flesh between the arrow and _Uthvir._

Why?

They know that even in this world of fleeting life, individuals still value theirs in a way that they can generally understand. They were providing advantages for Aili, most certainly, but death would negate any possible gains - and they can feel it. Her heart slowing. Poison, something on the arrow, wreaking terrible havoc on her. Perhaps she did not realize that element. Perhaps she only meant to endure a flesh wound, but why risk it?

 _"Uthvir!"_ she had shouted.

Her hands are lax, now, but a moment ago, she had been clutching at them. Looking at them, as if to plead with them for something. But then her eyes and rolled into her head, and now she is a weight in their arms. A weight with cooling blood and a slowing heart and something _wrong,_ something that fights their magic when they try and reach for it.

With a snarl, Uthvir launches their spear into the nearest templar. The flare of magic has it pelting through the air and through the man's armour, in turn, as Varric finally lands a shot on the archer. Without any further delay for shock, they carry Aili into cover, and lay her onto her stomach. The skirmish is still going. They put up a barrier, of the sort that even allies would struggle to get through, and set to work. Bloody, ruthless, _fast_ work as they pull out the arrow, because they need to pull out the poison, too. It is something that dislikes magic intensely, but their blood magic still works. They manage to keep Aili from bleeding out, manage to keep her heart beating as they do their best to draw out the poison.

It is messy healing. On its own, blood magic has uses when it comes to healing, but mostly in terms of the manipulation of blood. Repair work requires regenerative magics, which the poison is fighting.

Still, they get enough of it out that it is no longer threatening to stop Aili's heart. Enough of it that they can stitch the wound shut, using a needle from one of their own throwing darts. By the time things have progressed to that point, the skirmish is over.

Varric's voice is surprisingly gentle, like someone trying to calm a startled animal, when he calls for them to lower their barrier.

They look up, and Fear does a sweep of the area. The templars are all dead, or very close to dying. Trevelyan is up and moving around, which they dislike, but there is little for it; and the man has resources that will get Aili back to safety. They lower the barrier, and almost immediately he is upon them. Paling at the sight of Aili's bloodied back and hastily stitched wound.

"Maker's breath!" he exclaims. "You butcher! Any fool knows not to pull an arrow out like that!"

"It was poisoned," Uthvir snaps, radiating disdain. "The flesh can be repaired, but not if her _heart stops."_

"What templar poisons their weapons?" Trevelyan scoffs, 

"The sort who rebel from the chantry so that they can hunt down any mage they like, I imagine," they drawl back at him, with little patience. They do not _like_ Trevelyan. They are nearly tempted to just snap his neck and have done with it, but he has the wolf's magic in his palm, and they still have not figured out the whole picture of Solas' aims. 

And in fact, it is Solas who intervenes, then.

"Magebane," he says. "I recognize the effects. Uthvir is correct. A high enough dose of that would have proven fatal."

Trevelyan barely acknowledges him.

"We must get Aili to _proper_ healers," he insists, and steps forward. "I'll carry her myself. You've done enough damage."

Uthvir does not let him get a hand on her. They do not like the covetousness in him, and they like it far, far less, they find, when Aili is vulnerable. The image flares in their mind, again. Of the arrow striking her back. It makes their own shoulders twinge. A memory - _that_ memory, what is possibly the first memory that is truly their own - comes to them. Arrows and battlefields. A strike, and a fall, and the feeling of breaking apart from the inside out. And covetous hands, reaching, wanting to take what is left. Predators who would scoop up the remains and steal them away.

_No._

They take Aili in their own arms, careful of her wound - the only option, really, is to arrange her against their shoulder, and so they do, as they fix Trevelyan with a look that has even Mythal's wolf taking a reflexive step back.

"Do not touch my wife," they say.

To the credit of his sense of self-preservation, Trevelyan does not try and argue the point again.

~~

Time passes in a dreamy blur. Aili is not certain what is real and what is the result of her fevered mind. Everything slips by in hazy fantasies. Faces of her clanmates. Of Deshanna. Of the Dread Wolf; huge and dark and monstrous. Voices speaking from somewhere close at hand. Uthvir and Solas mostly, with snatches Cassandra and Varric. She even thinks she hears Trevelayn at one point, but a low hiss comes from somewhere beside her, and then there is nothing but silence for a long time.

Her skin feels icy and burning by turns. There are no proper dreams waiting for her when she drifts further towards sleep, and her magic feels strange and distant. It makes her feel numb and sluggish. Wrung out like a damp rag.

She wonders if she is dying. There is a vague sensation of a hand in her hair. Gently stroking it back from her face the way her father used to. She wonders how they found him. If her mother came, too. Her condition must be very bad if they sent for her parents.

The first time she opens her eyes and registers her surroundings with any clarity, she is back inside their little tent, and what seems to be daylight is sifting through the canvas. Which means that she was either out of it for a very short time, or a very _long_ time. She is lying flat on her stomach, and her shoulder is a steady throbbing ache. She feels grimy, and she has a strong suspicion that she has been sweating in her sleep, and that the sweat had dried before starting up again. Her eyes are full of grit, and her mouth tastes like vomit.

Aili makes a bid to flip herself over, which, she quickly discovers, is most definitely a mistake. A burning pain radiates out from her injured shoulder, and the arm attached to it is barely capable of movement. She gives a low moan of distress just as a pair of hands come to guide her so that she is lying on her uninjured side instead.

When she glances up at the face of her apparent nursemaid, she is a little surprised to see that it belongs to none other than her feigned spouse. Although, she is not sure why it is surprising. Perhaps it is simply that Uthvir does not seem the type to care for the sick and injured. Maybe they could not think of any other way to play off their ruse. Married people do tend to look out for each other, after all.

"Thanks," she rasps out. Uthvir nods and holds out a bladder full of what turns out to be fresh, cool water, which she drinks greedily. Happy to get the unpleasant taste of bile out of the back of her throat.

"Do did a very foolish thing," they inform her bluntly, "And it nearly killed you. But I presume you must have had noble intentions, so I suppose I should be thanking you as well."

Aili makes a face at them.

"Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired," she grumbles hoarsely, "I think that might have been the most backhanded depreciating show of gratitude I have ever heard. The Herald might have beaten you, but I am not sure he’s ever been grateful for anything."

Uthvir frowns at the assessment, brow furrowing in deep thought.

"It…is not my intention to distress you while you are still unwell," they say after a moment. Which might be as close to an apology as she is going to get. "I meant to say that, while your aims must have been to preserve the mobility of the person who has been keeping Trevelyan away from you, it was unnecessary. My armor is not merely for show, and I doubt any of these degenerate renegades are equipped with anything that could get past it."

Aili blinks at them.

"To be perfectly honest, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind," she tells them, "I didn’t have time to contemplate ulterior motives while we were fighting for our lives. I acted on instinct." 

Uthvir looks at her as though she has said something very strange.

Her stomach gurgles loudly.

"…You should eat," they tell her quietly, getting to their feet and moving to the front of the tent, "I will see if the scouts have managed to procure anything marginally edible today. Do not try to get up on your own."

"I think I can at _least_ handle sitting up," Aili protests.

"Humor me," they say with a smirk.

Uthvir is nearly out of their tent when they pause, seemingly struck by burning curiosity. They look back at her over their shoulder, as if trying to puzzle something out.

"Why _did_ you attempt to save me?" they ask finally.

Aili quirks an eyebrow and then laughs. The laughing hurts, but it is good to know she is still capable of it.

"Because I didn’t want you to get hit by an arrow?" she replies, as though the answer should be obvious.

Uthvir nods once in acceptance, although they still seem very contemplative about the whole thing.

"Sleep, if you can," they instruct her, "I will be back soon."

~~

She did not think; she just wanted them to avoid harm? 

And her solution to that was to fling herself between them and a deadly arrow?

Uthvir honestly has no idea what to make of that. It seems the opposite of a simple judgement, or the sort of thing someone could just decide to do in the blink of an eye. Well, rather, they think it _should_ have been a quick decision, all factors considered. But the outcome should have been entirely opposite.

What are they supposed to do with a fake wife who is willing to take an arrow for them?

...Does she want to die?

They had pondered that, while they kept a vigil over her bedside, and made certain that her heart kept beating and her blood didn't soak through her bandages. She did not seem the type, but then again, many who did not _seem_ the type to seek death were simply very good at disguising their inclinations. Or even over-compensating for them. The answer had not fit, even so... but they have not discounted it, either. This is a broken world, after all.

Uthvir can remember the feeling. Not their own - the concept is antithesis to them now - but they can remember...

...Aili makes them think too much of things better left buried.

With a shake of their head, they head over to the cookpot, to see what paltry offerings there are for food. Rations have run low, since Aili's injury has forced them to stay in one place for longer than planned. Now that she is awake, however, it should be safe to move her, and the problem will not persist. Uthvir considers going off to hunt something down themselves. There are goats in the region. They had offered their services to the refugee camp, and had found the animals laughably easy to catch; though apparently, that simple task is still beyond most of the recruits.

But then they catch sight of Trevelyan, glancing towards their tent, and they change their mind. The situation is not dire; they can hunt when it is safe to leave Aili unattended.

Fear is inclined to agree.

She will have to make do with last night's leftover squirrel stew and some travel bread, and tea, in the meanwhile. Uthvir scoops up a bowl and retrieves some bread from the covered stack by the fire, and pours a cup of warm drink, balancing it all on a thin metal plate. Trevelyan looks at them as if he wants to ask a question. But in the end, it is Solas who approaches.

"She is awake?" he guesses.

The man had helped heal her. Uthvir is still attempting to parse the motives behind _that,_ too, but they may be as simple as appearances. Not helping would be more conspicuous.

They incline their head.

"Awake, and moving more than she should. I need to get back," they explain.

"I will come with you," Solas offers. "If you intend to change her bandage, I would like to take another look at her wound."

Uthvir glances up at him.

"I think you have seen enough of my shirtless wife, for now," they find themselves saying, before they actually think the better of the response. They do not want Solas there. _Fear_ does not want _the wolf_ there, and after a moment of internal examination, they guess it is because they still have not figured out why Aili put herself between them and that arrow.

_We will have to make her armour. This cannot happen again._

It is... inconvenient.

Solas looks affronted, and Cassandra, of all people, bristles on his behalf.

"Solas is a healer. His comportment has been strictly professional," she points out.

Uthvir draws in a breath, and then inclines their head again.

"True enough. But my own interests are not professional, and for the time being, have no need to be," they reply. "...I will ask Aili."

"Perhaps you ought to bring her out here," Trevelyan suggests. "Where we can all help to keep an eye on the poor girl, and make sure you aren't over-taxing her."

Uthvir contemplates the knife in their boot. It is not, technically, a throwing knife, but they _can_ throw it, and with a fair degree of accuracy as well. It is very sharp. Sharp enough to cut through enchanted bonds, if need be, and the hide of particularly thick-skinned prey. Trevelyan's soft throat would be less than butter to it. 

"Open air would not serve her well, the weather is too cold," Solas asserts, and Uthvir makes the pragmatic choice, and slips away instead.

They have no idea why they are so angry. Fear must be more riled than they thought; after all, whilst that arrow likely would have bounced off of their armour, it _could_ have struck their neck. And it was poisoned. They doubt Solas' act would have extended so far as genuinely saving their life, under the circumstances. The wolf is aware that they are a kink in his plans, even though Uthvir has not decided for themselves whether or not they intend to be.

When they get back into the tent, Aili is attempting to sit up.

It's not going well for her.

They lower the plate of food onto the floor next to the bedroll, and set about helping her. She cannot eat on her side, after all. It is much easier to just scoop her up and move her themselves than to watch her strain her muscles, and figure out which ones are still not serving her well. Uthvir feels a pang of guilt, even though they doubt they should. They had done what they could to try and accelerate her healing, but the poison - magebane - resisted magic. Which meant it resisted magical healing, and so her body must fend the worst of it off the slow way.

They should not feel guilty about being unable to circumvent that for her.

Perhaps it is simply that they are starting to get used to being much more powerful than the others around them, in this future. 

Aili winces when they finally get her sitting up, but after a few moments, she seems able to keep with it. They offer her the food, and she looks at is as if she would rather not have it.

"You need the energy," they remind her. "You vomited while we were healing you."

They had gotten some broth into her while she was resting, but not much, and not easily.

With a sigh, and another wince, she relents and lets them settle the plate onto her lap. One-handed, she has some difficulties eating, but not too many. Nothing needs to be cut up, at least. Uthvir moves towards her back and checks her bandages, once it's clear that she can manage on her own.

"How bad is it?" Aili asks them.

They take stock, and answer truthfully.

"The wound is stitched. The skin around the wound is inflamed, but that seems to be from the poison, not the infection." they say. "But not as badly as it was before. You lost too much blood when I pulled out the arrow, so I could not simply flush the infected blood out of your system. But a lot of the poison did go with it. Magebane; it resists magic, I am given to understand. Solas did what he could to clean it and regenerate some of your flesh, but until you can flush the poison out naturally, magical healing will be slow to work on you."

She stays relatively still, at least, as they check the stitches, and then gather up some fresh bandages and start to replace them.

"You will probably not dream much in the meantime, either," they add. They had not been able to find her, on the other side of the Veil.

"I think I know some remedies that might help," she admits.

More elfroot, they wonder? That seems to be the cure-all here, though, admittedly, it is not a bad one.

"We can see about that later," they say. "We've run low of supplies. Now that you are awake, though, we can safely move you."

They set aside the used bandages, and Aili taps her spoon thoughtfully against the side of her stew bowl.

"Why couldn't you move me?" she wonders. Her voice sounds tired again. When they look at her face, her eyelids are drooping. They brush their fingers across her brow, and check for fever. Perhaps they spoke on infections too soon. But her skin feels relatively normal in temperature, and though her stare is a bit distant, it is not foggy or disoriented.

"Because we did not have the safe means to," they say.

"Oh," she replies, blinking at them.

Uthvir lets their hand slip from her forehead, and rests it against her cheek for a moment instead.

"No more jumping in front of arrows," they request.

Endearingly, she nods.

"Not going to make a habit of it," she promises.

Well.

That's a start.

~~

Now that she is awake, the Inquisition scouts begin preparations to move their camp. Planning to head back towards the crossroads. Provisions there are scarce, but there had at least been one or two vendors still making attempts to trade things, and with any luck, some of the raw minerals they had been gathering and a few of their spare blankets will be enough to barter for medicinal herbs and some fish and vegetables.

Aili is not generally a picky eater, but she thinks that one more day eating Scout Jim’s Famous Squirrel Stew might be enough to put her over the edge.

Uthvir insists that she stays inside the tent like a useless lump throughout the entire proceedings. She doesn’t know exactly how long she was incapacitated, but a little more than an hour of doing nothing but stare up at the canvas ceiling of their tent has her ready to tear hair out by the roots. And when her ‘spouse’ returns later to tell her that they are going to spend one last night in this camp before moving out the next morning, she nearly moans in despair.

"There must be _something_ I can do," she insists, "It’s not as though my legs have stopped working."

"You need rest," Uthvir counters firmly, "Your body is making attempts to regenerate blood and tissue as best it can without magical aid. Do not tempt fate by galivanting around the camp looking for odd jobs you cannot even preform competently in your current state."

"I’ve still got one good hand," Aili argues stubbornly, wiggling her fingers in their direction to prove her point, "I can haul satchels and stir stew pots with the best of them."

"And when you twist your shoulders the wrong way and reopen your wound, we will all be forced to stay here at least another day," Uthvir returns with an arched brow, "The best thing you can do to get this campsite ready to move is to conserve your energy for the ride out tomorrow."

"Have you ever been told to sit still and do nothing?" she wonders with a huff, "Do you know how _hard_ it is? I don’t even have a book to pass the time in here. What am I supposed to do, count the stitches in the ceiling?"

"Sleep?" Uthvir suggests with a smirk just as Cassandra calls them to come help with something outside. They rise to answer her summons, casting one last look in Aili’s direction before they leave. "I…will see if there is any stimulating reading material around the camp, if you like. I would not place too much hope upon it, however. I doubt anyone has seen fit to drag many books out into the wilderness. You might have to make do with a duty roster."

"Honestly, even that would be thrilling by comparison," she sighs.

Despite their warnings, however, Uthvir returns with a book tucked up under their arm, along with another batch of questionable stew. There appears to be mushrooms added this time, but not of any variety that she is immediately familiar with. Hopefully they have not pulled her out of the jaws of death just to accidentally murder her with fungi.

Still. She cannot contain her excitement at the prospect of potential reading material.

"I see your hunt was a success," she grins, making a grabbing motion towards the book, "You bear the Huntress’ markings with honor."

Uthvir gives her something of a flat look at her attempt at praise, but passes the bowl of food towards her outstretched fingers regardless.

"You can read after you eat," they say.

"Or I could read _while_ I eat?" she suggests hopefully.

"And just how do you suppose you are going to manage that with only a single working hand?" Uthvir wonders.

"Well…you could hold it for me?" Aili proposes with a smile laced with her best attempt at charm, "Or you could read it to me yourself, if you want me to have a bit more focus to spare for eating?"

Uthvir sighs in a way that suggests that they are being severely put upon, but they sit down beside her anyway. They tug off the spikiest parts of their shoulder guards, and shift close enough that she can see the pages as they turn them. It looks to be the first book in a serial; something to do with a red-haired buxom gaurdswoman, if the cover is any indication.

Uthvir scans the first page for a few seconds before their expression twists into a puzzled frown.

"This…is _horrible_ ," they say, as if they can’t quite understand it, "It is Cassandra’s, and I assumed a title such as _Swords and Shields_ would be about weaponry. This is… I do not even know _what_ this is."

"Any port in a storm," Aili laughs, "Read it anyway. It can’t be _that_ bad."

It is _absolutely_ that bad. The prose are ludicrous. The fight scenes are impossible. The dialogue is riddled with puns. And the love scenes are overly dramatic and full of sex positions that would likely only be possible for some sort of contortionist.

Aili nearly laughs herself silly. She does manage to snort a mushroom into Uthvir’s lap at one point, but they don’t seem terribly put out by it. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she might even think they were having as much fun with it as she is.

Somewhere around chapter four, her head begins to nod. For all her bravado, she still feels drained of most of her energy. Her focus keeps going in and out. Likely due to her tenuous connection to the Fade.

She feels herself leaning. And then a warm solid presence against her uninjured side. A touch of something cool and metallic against her head. And the last thing she can make out is the sound of Uthvir’s voice reading to her as she drifts off towards sleep.

~

Aili falls asleep against them.

Uthvir considers moving her. They are not the most comfortable resting post, though at least they aren't wearing some of their more _elaborate_ gear. But she is leaning away from her injured side, and a few minutes, they think, will not do her any harm. She might not be entirely asleep yet, either. Without the clarity of emotional expression, it is difficult to say for certain.

So they keep reading, up until the heroine of the novel finds herself trapped in a small room with the timer counting down to her lover's demise, and when Aili offers no protestation or commentary - only solid, even breaths - they finally give up on the novel, and put it down. Terrible fiction, really. But it seemed, strangely, as if the author was well aware of how overblown everything in the story was, and sought to bring about the story's entertainment through embracing it, rather than tempering it. Not quite a comedy - but exaggerated in a similar way.

It had not been too much of a chore to read, at least.

Aili's cheek slips slightly against their shoulder, and they decide it is time to settle her back down onto her bedroll. They attempt to move their arm - carefully - but as they shift, Aili does, too, and wraps her good one more securely around their waist. Leaning into the opening, and pressing her face closer to the side of their neck. Uthvir stills. They feel a moment of reflexive discomfort at feeling her exhalations so close to their throat. But Aili's eyes remain closed, and they have... _noticed,_ before now, her tendency to crawl into any personal space permitted to her while she is unconscious. As if her body is drawn to warmth.

It was an easier impulse to dissuade before she was injured. Despite an impressive ability to contort herself around them - and some early confusion as to whether or not she was attempting to seduce them - Uthvir had still been much, much stronger, and capable of simply disentangling her limbs and replacing themselves with a pillow, if needed.

But now Aili is injured. Attempts to reduce her grip on them could re-open her shoulder wound.

A wound she sustained in defence of them.

Uthvir considers the issue, as her cheek slants down towards their chest again. There is no pressing duty for them at the moment, at least. No need for them to take any action until morning, and spending the night in the tent would certainly help with their ruse. It would also allow them to keep an eye on their patient, and ensure that she does not toss or turn in her sleep, and risk undoing some of the work her body has already done in healing. And it is not... _unpleasant,_ they suppose, to rest with someone close by. Someone who does not appear to mean them any harm; who, it is perhaps safe to venture, might even wish them well. For reasons both pragmatic _and_ personal.

They take a moment to move around slightly, setting down the book and putting out the light, and by the time they manage to lower themselves onto the bedroll, Aili is all but on top of them. Much as they might enjoy the more _scintillating_ options of such a position, a little rearranging actually makes it a good one for her injury. Her back is to the air, so she is not lying on it, and her good arm is around them, but her injured one is secure and not liable to be pulled or twisted. Uthvir moves their own arm to her side, and essentially secures her in place.

With their other hand, they brush her hair away from her face. She sighs a little in her sleep. Her eyelashes flutter, but she doesn't actually wake.

After a few minutes, she starts drooling on their chest, in fact.

The drool won't hurt anything, though, so Uthvir only snorts, and then tilts their own head back to settle into a restive state. Not sleep, but close to it. Even without proper sleep, they've found, letting their limbs relax and their body go without movement, their thoughts drift without focus, can improve their energy levels and revitalize them quite a bit. They breathe in a deliberate, even rhythm; and are surprised to find, after a while, that Aili is matching it. That the thumping of her heart is more or less keeping time with their own, too.

It makes relaxing that much easier, funnily enough.

They drift. Hours pass. From behind their eyelids they eventually notice the light slowly brightening of its own accord, as the night passes and daylight creeps in again. Birds begin to stir only just before the camp does. Uthvir draws in a breath that breaks the rhythm of their rest, and begins to sit up.

They know Aili has woken up when her grip on them tightens, just briefly; and then relinquishes them again. They look down at her, and she blinks muzzily back up at them. Frowning, and then wincing slightly when she moves just a bit too much - they pat her side, and hold her still for a moment, before helping her sit up more carefully.

She lifts a hand, and swipes at the side of her mouth.

"Did we spend all night like that?" she wonders.

Uthvir inclines their head.

"I am given to believe that is not uncommon behaviour for spouses," they say, and begin straightening their own self out. They should have undressed further, perhaps, if they were going to lie on their back for so long. Their shoulders ache a little, and some of the flesh around their scars feels tender from enduring the odd pressures all night. But, nothing too bad. They stretch, and then bid Aili turn around so that they can check her wound and change her bandage.

"You could have woken me up," she says, looking vaguely apologetic. "We're not _really_ married."

"More's the pity," they quip. "But do not trouble yourself. I would have woken you, if I felt the need to."

Despite their efforts to keep their tone light, however, their touch lingers for a moment at her wound. She will almost certainly have a scar. Not in the same place where... not in the middle of her back, but on her shoulder, assuredly. They can still reduce it, though, and hopefully, it will not plague her. The flesh around her wound is less red this morning, and her stitches look to be holding well.

But then again, despite her complaints, Aili has not really done anything today. Leaving camp will be another matter.

Uthvir frowns a little, as they bandage her back up.

"What would you like for breakfast?" they ask.

"I didn't think there were enough options to actually choose something," Aili replies. 

"There aren't," they concede. "But if you'd said 'squirrel stew', we might have pretended." At least they managed to find a few mushrooms the other day, to try and add some variety into it. Their foraging skills might not be as exemplary as their hunting ones, but they're still a fair hand at it.

Aili groans.

"I think I can just skip breakfast today," she suggests.

"You need your strength," Uthvir reminds her. She gives them a flat look, and they smirk in return. "I'll see what I can find. Wait here, and try not to move around too much."

Her expression does not improve, and she grumbles somewhat. They think if she was more awake, they might actually have an argument on their hands. But as it is, they manage to leave the tent after extracting a promise from her to wait for them. Trevelyan is not an early riser, at least, and neither is the wolf. The Seeker is up and about, though, going through her morning workout as Uthvir rises. They find themselves missing, for a moment, the authority of their old life. When they could have asked someone to watch the tent and make certain that Aili did not over-tax herself, and trusted that they would do so even if only because Uthvir might rip their throat open if they didn't.

But even then, they would have had to contend with Andruil's own predilections. And Trevelyan is a much more manageable hazard, in the end.

The scouts have not had any more success with their traps this morning than in previous days. Uthvir listens to the birds singing in the trees, and after a moment of silent contemplation, stalks off away from the camp. It would take too long to hunt something down with a bow or a spear, but...

There _are_ other options.

When they are confident that there are not witnesses about, and able to ignore Fear's hissing over the decision, Uthvir changes shape into that of a very large hawk. They beat their wings and launch themselves up into the sky, winging over the treetops that encircle the campsite. From the air, it is easier to see the terrain. The scars on the landscape from the dragon that has taken roost in the Hinterlands, and lumbering shape of a bear, giving their encampment a wise berth. A bear wouldn't be a bad catch, but it would be tricky. Uthvir looks for likelier prey, flying higher and letting their keen hawk's gaze make up the difference, as they try to avoid giving too much warning to any small, skittering animals which might be on the ground.

It takes long enough that they are just beginning to second-guess their decision, when finally something small and dark charges out of the underbrush. Uthvir does not hesitate. They launch themselves after it, dropping down like a stone, and close the distance to strike with lightning precision. Their talons slice through feathers and flesh, a twisting of their foot snapping bone. The grouse dies without further sound, and they feel a swell of triumph in their breast.

_Yes._

No squirrel stew this morning after all.

They carry their prize back as a bird for most of the way, before shifting to their elven form outside of the camp, and finishing the trek on foot.

~

Aili is nearly asleep again, half-heartedly flipping through the pages of her borrowed book, when the smell of roasting meat comes wafting through the tent flaps. Whatever game it may be, it certainly isn’t squirrel. Apparently, that thought alone is enough to rouse her stomach, which seems to be enough to wake the rest of her as well.

When Uthvir returns to their tent a little while later with a plate of something that actually looks edible and a steaming mug of tea, it is almost enough to make her salivate.

“Did some hapless chicken wander into the scouts’ traps at last?” she wonders, taking the plate from them eagerly.

“A grouse,” Uthvir corrects her, looking more than a little pleased with themselves, “And this is one of my kills, as it happens.”

“You are magnificent,” Aili commends though a mouthful of her breakfast. It tastes delicious, but it is a bit trickier to eat than a bowl of stew. She can only handle one utensil at a time, so she ends up skewering sections of the roasted fowl on the end of her knife and gnawing on it as best she can. The result is having the bottom third of her face covered in grease and bits of bird.

Uthvir snorts.

“And you are a mess,” they reply with something that sounds suspiciously like fondness, taking a corner of the blanket to wipe ineffectually at her face. 

Once she has managed to get the majority of her food where it is supposed to go, Uthvir begins the process of helping her back into the various layers of her clothing. Luckily, she had been wise enough to pack more than one undershirt and tunic, but she heaves a sigh when she picks up her torn and bloodied leathers. Both the arrow and Uthvir have done a number on them, it seems.

These were the ones she had worn to the conclave. Made of beasts slain by the hunters of her clan, tanned and dyed and molded by their craftsmen, stitched together with pieces of home. She runs her fingers over one of the clan symbols etched into the shoulder, thoughtful. She knowns how to skin an animal well enough, and how to cure the hide properly, but she has no particular skill for leatherwork.

Perhaps Harritt will be up for a patch job when they get back to Haven.

"We should find you something better," Uthvir says from behind her, doing their best to guide her into her armor without jostling her injuries too much. Aili winces all the same.

"Preferably something without a hole in it," she returns with a hint of a grimace as they assist with lacing her in.

Uthvir nods in complete seriousness.

"The quality of armor that the Inquisition turns out is questionable at best, but even a substandard steel breastplate would serve you better than leathers," they inform her, "At the very least it would do a better job of deflecting projectiles."

"It would also do an excellent job of ensuring that I was exhausted and useless for just about any fight we ended up in," she huffs at them, "It might have escaped your notice, but not everyone around here is capable of hefting a cow over their head as though it weighs nothing."

"I did not lift it over my head, I simply tossed it in the direction of the river so it could find its way home. Gently," Uthvir retorts, "But I suppose I see your point. Perhaps something with runes and enchantments would be better."

"Well, that is something to worry about later," Aili sighs, letting out a deep groan as she finally struggles to her feet. Blood seems to rush to her head, and she stumbles, dizzy and off balance. Uthvir catches her by her good arm, holding her up.

"I suppose it is a good thing that you will not be expected to walk any great distance," they say with a faint smirk.

"Yes, well, we'll see how Fen'Harel feels about bearing a rider today," she answers with a wry twist of her lips.

Uthvir's face falls.

"You are not riding that monstrosity of a horse in your condition," they tell her flatly.

"Of course I am," she rolls her eyes at them, grabbing up her satchel and slinging it over her good shoulder. To her credit, she only flinches slightly. "How else do you suppose I am going to get back to the crossroads?"

She sweeps her way out of the tent and into the fresh morning air. It is a bit cold, but she breathes it in deep. The smell of pine and dew and the vestiges of a dying fire. The chill prickles in her lungs, and makes the muscles in her shoulder twinge, but it's still a good feeling.

A sense of being alive.

Uthvir is quick to follow her, their own gear in hand, making moves to divest her of her pack.

"You should ride with me, naturally," they tell her with a half-smile, "I am your devoted spouse, after all."

"And are you going to have me press my injured shoulder into your spikes while you sit behind me?" Aili wonders, still making her way determinedly towards the mounts, refusing to give over her luggage, "Or do you expect me to hold onto you with my one good arm as we go bouncing along the countryside?"

"Either of those seem preferable to your ill-tempered horse dumping you into the mud," Uthvir insists.

"It'll be fine!" Aili waves them off.

"What will be fine?" Solas asks, coming over to join them.

"Good morning, Solas!" Aili beams at him, blatantly ignoring the question.

"Good morning," he smiles in return, "I am pleased to see that you are feeling better."

"Thanks in large part to you, I understand," she replies brightly, "And, of course, my spouse."

"I was more than willing to do my part," Solas says with a slight inclination of his head, "I only wish I was capable of doing more. Unfortunately, there is only so much healing magic can do against magebane."

"I'm still alive and kicking," she says with a half shrug, and a trace of a wince, "Couldn't ask for more than that, really."

"Would it be too much to hope that there will not be a repeat performance of this particular scenario?" Solas wonders as the rest of the party begins making their way over to the mounts and saddling up. "As your healer, I would strongly advise against leaping in front of anymore arrows."

"Yes, yes," she grins at him, rolling her eyes slightly in exasperation, "You know, between you and Uthvir, I am beginning to suspect that I have a reputation for being reckless. Wholly unfounded."

"Yes, there is nothing reckless about attempting to ride a horse who routinely pitches you in the dirt while still recovering from an injury," Uthvir quips dryly. 

"What?" Solas baulks, "You are not going to try and ride that creature by yourself, are you?"

"What's this about riding by yourself?" Dick interjects, striding up to them in a long fur-trimmed cloak, "Nonsense! What kind of husband abandons their wife to some wild untamed beast? The poor girl just got back on her feet, can't leave her by herself to get thrown into the bushes."

"No one was suggesting leaving her to her own devices," Uthvir snaps.

"No one except me," Aili frowns, "Look, nobody has to carry me around in a basket just because I got hurt a little."

"You nearly _died_ ," Solas reminds her pointedly.

"Details," she insists with a wave of her hand.

"Here now," Trevelyan says coming over and wrapping an arm around her before she even gets a moment to tell him to shove off, his hand landing heavily on her injured shoulder, "You can ride with me and Hector. Couldn't ask for more of a treat than that; riding with the Herald of Andraste!"

Aili's back tenses under the weight of his arm, her feet stumbling as her vision blurs with unexpected pain.

And then, somehow, the weight is lifted. And she finds herself carefully scooped into someone's arms. Held in such a way that her injury is unlikely to bump into anything as they walk.

She glances up at Uthvir, who looks more than a little bit annoyed, before looking back to see the large jumble of fur and leather that had recently been manhandling her face first on the ground. Then she curls her fingers into their cloak and leans into them a bit. Unconsciously heaving a relieved sigh.

"Under the circumstances, I trust there are no further objections to riding on my hart with me?" they ask tersely, "We can wrap extra cloaks and blankets around you to prevent my armor from aggravating your wounds."

Aili nods in silent acquiescence.

"…Thank you," she says quietly after a moment, wrinkling her nose slightly, "I thought the smell of his cologne was going to kill me."

~

Uthvir snorts. Trevelyan does seem to have a predilection for... _conspicuous_ perfumes. They are not entirely certain if the man actually thinks it's appealing, or if humans just don't smell things as well as elves do. The latter would also explain some of the things they've noticed about the settlements in this time.

Though, in all fairness, they haven't encountered many elven settlements for comparison, as yet.

Aili's terror of a horse is handled by Cassandra, for the time being. The Seeker also takes the liberty of scooping Trevelyan up from where Uthvir left him. The Herald asks, loudly, what attacked him, and seems convinced that some rogue wolf or 'perhaps even a tiger' had managed to make its way into their camp. Uthvir's honestly not certain if the man is making a calculated attempt to avoid having to confront them, or they actually hit him hard enough that he has no idea they even did it in the first place.

On balance, they suppose it does not matter very much what the answer is. If he persists in trying to re-open Aili's wound, they will simply make their point again. And however many subsequent times it may be needed.

Solas helps them get Aili ready for travel. A fact which has their 'darling wife' sighing, and insisting that she can handle herself, but also not really protesting as they re-check her bandages and stitches, and then secure her in several blankets. Only, it becomes apparent in short order that even the weight of the blankets is a bit much, as they press against the wound. Trevelyan did not take out a stitch, but he did jostle one badly enough to draw blood.

"I suppose I'll ride behind you..." Aili concludes, after they've gotten the blankets back off of her.

"I have a better idea," Uthvir replies, and scoops her up again.

Their hart is a relatively patient mount, unlike that nightmare of a horse which Dennet granted to Aili. It stands steady as Uthvir begrudgingly hands Aili over to Solas, and climbs into the saddle; and then reaches back to lift her up again. She moves confusedly for a moment, but seems to catch on as they settle her in front of them. They had left off several pieces of their armour, in anticipation of this ride, so their front is thoroughly spike-free as they more or less settle Aili into their lap. Facing towards them, rather than with her back at their chest. Luckily, she is short enough that they can still easily see past her. Her legs are forced to settle on top of theirs, for the sake of space and some degree of comfort.

"Your thighs will go numb..." she protests.

"It will be fine," they counter, and settle one hand against her lower back. She lets out a grumbling sigh, as if _they_ are somehow the unreasonable party in this mess. But their positions now mean that she must choose between awkwardly sitting straight, and impeding their view a little; or else leaning against them, and wrapping her good arm around them, and resting her cheek on their shoulder.

She chooses the latter more quickly than they had expected. Sighing again, and squirming around some in order to get her bad arm into a more comfortable position.

Uthvir is _very glad_ that they have long been in the habit of keeping their nether regions inward rather than outwards when they are riding. All that squirming in their lap is not without its predictable side effects.

"Tell me if you need me to move," she insists.

"I think it would be best if you moved as little as possible," they tell her, as some wryness seeps into their voice. "Much as I am enjoying having you in my clutches."

She rolls her eyes at them.

"You had me in your clutches all last night, too," she says. "You're probably still stiff."

Nearby, from where he's getting onto his own mount, the dwarf snorts out a surprised chortle. Uthvir's own lips twitch at the innuendo. They fall easily into the routine of feigned marital affection, however. They never once saw Andruil and Ghilan'nain express their relationship in private, or while one of them was injured. But they saw a few married couples. They remember one particularly harrowing Summer Festival in Arlathan, when Falon'Din had deigned to throw a tantrum, and covered a party of Sylaise's attendants in boiling blood. One of the women of the group had been married. Her husband had whisked her off, radiating fear for her in so obvious a way that even Uthvir had taken note of it. But the healers had done good work, and the pair had been back at the celebration again before evening. The husband hovering and fussing and refusing to part from his wife's side at the behest of anyone short of Sylaise herself.

They tilt their head slightly. Moving the hand they have on Aili's back in reassuring circles, for a moment, before they press a kiss to her temple.

"Stop fretting," they say, echoing the assurances that had passed between that married couple. Long dead, now. "I can handle this. Just lean on me, and trust that I will look after us both."

They hear Aili swallow. Though, with her face resting against their shoulder, they cannot see her expression. Nor feel any hint of emotion in the air around her, though. She is not afraid, at least - Fear gathers that much. Her heart beats a little erratically for a moment. They can feel it pressed up against their own.

"...Alright," she acquiesces, more quietly than before.

Uthvir ventures another kiss to her temple, for good measure, and then focuses on handling the hart. It is slightly more challenging than usual, with Aili in their lap. They keep one hand on her, and one on the reins, and their mount is placid enough, with a clear road to follow. It's harder than usual for them to twist and move and look around themselves, if need be. They make up the difference by letting Fear slip into the shadows a bit more, and get a better feel for the area. Prey animals hiding in the brush. The rest of the party loading up their mounts. There is a cart, but, the thing is far too rickety to hold Aili; the wood splinters and the wheels jostle, and the ride alone probably would have jolted her badly enough to undo her stitches. It's piled up with their tents and bedrolls and remaining supplies, instead.

As they set out, their procession falls into a line. Trevelyan and the Seeker up front, the dwarf and their accompanying soldiers at the back, the scouts moving as they will, and Uthvir, Aili, and Solas towards the middle, holding the most secure space for their injured. Uthvir does not think much of it, until the wolf urges his own hart closer to theirs, rather than falling back to try and engage Tethras in one of their bizarre philosophical debates.

"I find myself curious," Solas says, offering Aili a smile when she glances at him. "How did the two of you manage to meet?"

"Um," Aili says, eloquently.

Uthvir glances towards Solas. They still have not quite figured out if the wolf has managed to recognize them or not, yet. They had precious few actual dealings with one another in the past. Though, Uthvir's look has always been distinctive, and one they have maintained into this strange future.

They consider the matter for a bare moment. Solas is the kind who cannot resist subtly giving himself away, they have noticed. It is probably safe to assume that if they test the waters, he will tip his hand.

"We met in a tavern," they say. "I ended up there, lost, in the wake of the tragedy which killed all of my fellow hunters. I was unfamiliar with humans and ill-equipped to deal with the place. Several of the tavern patrons were high-ranking types. One of them got it into his head that I was a pleasure worker, whose company he might purchase for a few coins. As I was attempting to dissuade him, Aili noticed the disturbance, and came to my rescue."

Aili's fingers curl against their chest, but most of their attention is on Solas, at the moment. The man's expression is the picture of polite interest. But they see the recognition in his gaze at their choice of terms. High-ranking. Pleasure worker. Not _bizarre_ appellations in this time and place, but not the most common, either.

"Fortunate," Solas decides. "Though I am sorry to hear you have suffered tragedy."

Uthvir inclines their head.

"Few elves have not," they reply. "My fellow hunters caught the eye of the Dread Wolf. Or, rather, our leader did. The rest of us were simply caught in the closing of his jaws." A metaphor for misfortune, but the barb lands in the form of a barely-visible flinch. There and gone again that if they didn't know better, they might think they imagined it.

They do know better, though.

"But you managed to escape," Solas observes.

They meet his gaze steadily.

"So I did," they confirm. "Lucky me."

Solas eases back, then, and withdraws to his own thoughts. Uthvir and Aili ride in silence for long enough that they start to wonder if Aili is not falling asleep again. But, every so often, she moves in a way that refutes that guess. Her hand pats awkwardly at their waist at one point, and she shifts in their hold so that it seems more like an embrace for several minutes. Trying to get comfortable, they assume. Up at the front of the procession, Trevelyan starts belting out one of his questionable 'travel songs', and promptly startles a flock of starlings out of the trees.

It is a long ride, in the end.

~

The trip back towards the crossroads offers a lot of time for contemplation. Of course, in her current position, Aili can’t do much _except_ contemplate things. That, and make a few weak attempts to not fall off of Uthvir’s hart.

Her view of the countryside is limited to whatever she can see past Uthvir’s shoulders, and she can’t shift herself around much without potentially dislodging one or both of them from the saddle, and reopening her wound. And when a cold drizzle starts up, her ‘attentive spouse’ pulls their riding cloak up around both of them, and she can see even less. She finds herself swathed up in some damp little cave of fabric at their front, like a child too small to be trusted with their own mount. The world shrunk down to the sound of softly plodding hooves, and even breaths in her ear, and the cool press of their armor along her body.

It is a strange juxtaposition of awkward and surprisingly soothing.

And uncomfortably intimate.

It does not seem to bother Uthvir, though. And she wonders at that. That they seem to have no qualms about a relative stranger do things like fall asleep on top of them, or cling to them like some odd vine making its way up a tree. Pretending to be married had been mutually beneficial when they had met in the tavern, but now the rouse is really only useful on her end. Trevelyan may be many unsavory and unpleasant things, be even he doesn’t seem foolish enough to harass Uthvir.

Which leads her to the general conclusion that, despite alternative evidence to the contrary, Uthvir might, in fact just be…nice.

Aili gets the feeling that they would not appreciate that assessment, however.

The rain at least seems to dissuade Trevelyan from inflicting any more of his ‘travel songs’ on them. Singing is not a terrible idea, though, even if the Herald is not especially apt at it. And after a few minutes of relative silence, Aili begins to hum quietly to herself.

She is not even certain Uthvir can hear it until they see fit to comment a few minutes later.

“Do you know the words to that tune?” they wonder.

“Bits and pieces,” she sighs, “It’s an old one my mother taught me. Something about fighting a dragon.” 

“The original version, I believe, was about _courting_ a dragon, if I remember correctly,” Uthvir tells her, and she can almost hear the smirk in their voice, “I know there were at least two verses about creative bedroom uses for the beast’s claws.”

“Nonsense,” Aili scoffs, “Who’d want to make love to a dragon?” 

“You might be surprised,” Uthvir hums, sounding distinctly amused.

“Yes, well, be sure to give me fair warning before you try to give the one living in the eastern hills any kisses,” she snorts, “I want to make sure to keep my distance when you get eaten.”

“So, you will save me from stray arrows, but not from dragons?” Uthvir asks, feigning disappointment

“I’m willing to fish you out of danger when it is not of your own making,” she informs them with a laugh, “If you are foolhardy enough to attempt to romance an enormous fire-breathing lizard, you’re on your own.”

“Such cruel words from my own beloved wife,” Uthvir sighs, “Would you at least avenge my death?”

“That depends,” Aili says, “I might be too busy fleeing from the Herald of Andraste. He seems to have a very… _hands on_ approach to comforting grieving widows. I would remember you fondly, though.”

“Would you?” Uthvir wonders, sounding just the tiniest bit surprised.

“Of course I would,” she answers, and it comes out so naturally that she finds herself a little surprised about it, too. Silence hangs between them for a few heartbeats as this new revelation sinks in. Aili’s good hand curls against their waist, unconsciously holding them just a bit closer, and she finds that she is glad that they do not have a clear view of her face.

When she speaks again, her voice is much softer.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

~

Aili holds them in that strange, tight, near-embrace way as she asks her question.

It stalls Uthvir for a moment. Quiet enough that only they might hear, not a thing asked for show - and it would not make a good show, anyway, for Aili to ask her own spouse if they were friends with her. Most married people, even in this strange time, do seem to consider such relationships to require a degree of friend-like intimacy. That she has asked means she truly wants to know, and Uthvir...

Uthvir is not a very good friend.

Much as their relationship might be of benefit to her now, it may even prove detrimental later on, depending on how all of this should play out. The herald. The wolf. The hole in the sky. They curl and arm around her, as the road grows somewhat bumpy. Holding her well beneath the arrow mark, until the silence goes on too long, and she looks away from them. Her brows furrowing, as if they have hurt her. But their cavalier response - that of course they are friends; and perhaps more - is stuck on their tongue, for some reason.

It is only when she sighs that they lean down, and whisper to her under the pretense of dropping a kiss to the top of her ear.

"Yes," they say, simply.

At least, if this turns out badly, she should know that they would not casually discard her. Not at this point.

 _We un-People must stick together,_ they think, a little wryly. Neither of them would be fit for Elvhenan, but then, Elvhenan is gone. Fallen to rubble and ruin and dreams. Uthvir almost likes that aspect of this world, even as part of them does struggle with the horror of what had happened to bring it about. The empire was not eternal after all. It crushed itself under its own bloated corruption, and most of what is left behind, now, are those of them who had enough luck and enough strangeness to survive.

There were people who never deserved that fate. And things that should be remedied about the state of the world as it is now, Uthvir believes. But they do not mourn for the empire.

Aili subsides, but seems less worried. More tired, in fact, as the ride draws on. Uthvir checks her pulse a few times, and heightens their sense of smell to breathe in her scent, and check for the telltale signs of infection or fever on it. But they find none. The party makes its way back up to the crossroads and on through the wilderness, towards the Frostbacks. They stop a few times, to water the horses and harts, and take a break from their travels, and investigate some odd signs here and there. When they make camp again, it is not too far from Haven. But still not near enough to risk travelling by dark. 

Uthvir leaves Aili with Solas and Cassandra, and only some mild trepidation, for all of twenty minutes, whilst they turn into a hawk and snag a nug for the camp's dinner.

When they get back, the Herald is looming over their wife.

...Fake wife.

Trevelyan has a bushel of flowers in his grasp. Uthvir has no idea where he acquired them, they look the sort sold as merchant stalls, but their stalks are overly long and there are still thorns on some of them. Likely he raided some poor farmer's garden for them, while he was off checking their routes with the scouts. The blossoms are already beginning to suffer from the biting cold weather around the camp. Uthvir casts a warming spell as they draw closer, but Aili already has one up, it seems, and is looking awkward.

"-just to cheer you," Trevelyan is saying, grinning like a man with a thousand ulterior motives.

To her credit, Aili manages to take the flowers without pricking herself on any of the thorns.

"That was very thoughtful of you, Herald," she tells him. "I'm sure the whole camp will appreciate having something to brighten the atmosphere."

Trevelyan's shit-eating grin falters a little.

"Ah," he says. "But, you see-"

"Did the Herald bring us flowers?" Uthvir asks, slinging their nug pointedly over one shoulder. They should have caught two. Or three. "How kind of him."

Trevelyan gives them a look which only they seem to provoke from him, equal parts terror and confusion, before making his excuses and scurrying away.

"Is that dinner?" Aili asks them, brightening a little.

"For you," they confirm, with a nod. "To build up your strength. The rest of the camp can make do with rations. We'll reach Haven tomorrow, after all."

For some reason, this makes her sigh at them.

"I'm happy to share," she insists.

They raise an eyebrow.

"I am not," they counter, before heading to the cook fire.


	3. Out in the Storm

When Aili opens her eyes, she finds herself staring up at what appears to be the roof of some sort of cave or tunnel. It is dark and her head is pounding, but she thinks someone must be carrying her. Either that or the walls of this particular cave can move on their own, which would be disconcerting. A slight shift of her gaze reveals that it is her ‘spouse’ who has taken to toting her around like a sack of flour.

“Uthvir…where?” she manages to rasp out. She’s having some trouble piecing her memories together. They were fighting someone? Or running? And Haven… Haven was burning. Templars and mages with grotesque features; warped and twisted by red lyrium. Screaming and chaos and blood in the snow.

“It seems that there were tunnels beneath the village, just as the priest said,” they tell her quietly, “There is no telling if they will lead out in the same direction that the others fled in, however. For now, we should focus on survival. We can worry about finding the rest of the Inquisition once we are safely away from Corypheus and his minions. Do you think you can walk on your own? You seem to have landed in…an unfortunate position.”

“My face does feel a bit like it had a close encounter with a rock,” Aili groans, “But I think I can walk.”

Uthvir sets her down gently, but almost as soon as Aili’s feet meet the stone floor of the passageway, a burning pain lances up through her foot. She curses loudly, stumbling and slightly dizzy. Uthvir quickly grabs hold of her again before she manages to fall over, for which she is grateful.

“Well, so much for that idea,” Aili huffs, “I think I have the energy left to heal myself, but… I think I must have knocked my head a bit harder than I thought. Trying to patch yourself up when you have a fever, or a headache is never a good plan. How are you feeling?”

“I am…a bit drained,” they admit, “We were fighting for quite a while even before the dragon showed up.”

“Do you think you killed it?” Aili wonders.

“It is possible that it will succumb to its injuries,” Uthvir hums thoughtfully as they help her make her way down the passage, “But I doubt that this Corypheus would allow that to happen. He seems to have some sort of connection to it, and I suspect that he would not relinquish such a thing willingly. Dragons are powerful and intimidating. It is a useful tool in gaining and inspiring followers, if nothing else.”

“It looked…wrong. _Blighted_. You don’t think he can control Darkspawn with it do you?” she presses further, her grip on them tightening slightly with worry. “Ferelden is just getting back on its feet, and the Fifth Blight was over ten years ago. I don’t know if we could survive another one with everything else going on.”

“I suspect that if Corypheus was capable of summoning the other Darkspawn to do his bidding, he likely would have done so,” Uthvir replies, “It would have been much simpler than slowly feeding red lyrium to various mages and Templars for weeks on end.”

“Small mercies,” Aili sighs in relief.

“He might be capable of controlling blighted creatures within a certain proximity to himself, however,” Uthvir continues with a thoughtful hum, “It would explain why his lackeys remain so loyal, even after becoming seemingly mindless beasts. It merits further investigation, I should think.”

“I suggest investigating our way out of these tunnels first,” Aili replies.

Uthvir snorts.

"Well, your injuries cannot be too grievous if you are still making attempts at being funny," they smirk.

"You laughed!" she reminds them with a grin of her own.

Uthvir shakes their head at her, but the spark of amusement does not leave their eyes as they continue to guild her through the cave's winding passageways. Aili is not sure how, but they seem to know where they are going, despite not even knowing the caves existed before Chancellor Roderick told them about them a few hours ago. She doesn't sense any magic from them, outside of a cold prickling sensation that seems to surround them sometimes, but she's almost certain that is not a spell. The feeling probably just emanates from the runes on their armor or something. Just like their innate sense of direction probably has something to do with their hunting skills. 

Probably.

The relatively cheerful mood abruptly vanishes once they get to the mouth of the cave leading out into the mountains and are met with a billowing sea of white. The only sign of the fleeing Inquisition is an abandoned cart with a broken wheel. There is no path. No markers. No way to follow after. Aili can feel her hopes fading as surely as footprints in the swirling snow.

"Well…we know the general direction they went in," she says, trying to sound chipper and failing rather badly, "Maybe you could…scout ahead and find them? I'm probably not going to get far on this ankle, and you'll move much faster without having to drag me along behind you."

"You can barely stand at present," Uthvir frowns, "How do you suppose you are going to defend yourself if Corypheus' minions find their way into these tunnels while I am gone?"

"I can use magic sitting down," she points out, "And you're almost as tired as I am. There's no sense in both of us freezing to death because we couldn't find help or shelter fast enough. I'll find a place to hide, and you can bring back some of our friends. It…it'll be fine."

They give her a long searching look. The expression on their face is inscrutable, and Aili gets the distinct impression that great many things are being weighed against each other. She tightens her grip on them a little, but otherwise keep her peace, wondering what their verdict will be.

Uthvir lets out a long breath.

"I do not suppose it would be especially gallant if I left my injured wife to fend for herself," they say finally, carefully lifting her in their arms once again and stepping out into the snow, "I suspect the others would never let me hear the end of it."

“I’m not your wife,” she reminds them, but her voice is soft, and the usual protest almost sounds a bit remorseful.

“Perhaps not,” they concede, talking over the wind roaring in their ears. “Still, I doubt it would do my reputation any favors if I allowed you to succumb to the cold. Defeating an ancient magister, his pet dragon, and all of his lackeys only to be thwarted by a bit of weather? Pathetic.”

“If you say so,” Aili says quietly, not quite capable of biting back a smile.

It is hard to say how long they struggle through the blizzard. It feels like hours, and the scenery hardly changes, just endless blinding whiteness occasionally broken up by the dark shape of a tree or a rock. And there are still no signs of the Inquisition. Uthvir moves with surety, though, even if they are not moving especially fast, so Aili thinks they must have a better idea of how to track their companions than she does. Or maybe it is simply their survival instincts kicking in, keeping them fording on ahead. She finds she does not have the energy to ask about it either way.

It is very cold.

When they rushed out to defend Haven they had been dressed for battle, not a long hike through the mountains. Neither of them have cloaks or furs to protect them from the biting winds. Aili does not even have shoes that cover her toes. It was a bad choice, in retrospect, but there is little that can be done about it now.

By the time the storm finally breaks, Aili is visibly shaking. Her feet and ears are almost entirely numb, and there is quite a bit of snow accumulating in her hair. She is damp and windburned and miserable, and Uthvir does not appear to be fairing much better than she is. Their pace has slowed considerably, and their grip on her has slackened, they still seem set on soldiering on, though, so Aili decides not to bring up how haggard they look.

That is, right up until they stumble through a snowbank and all but plow them both straight into a tree.

“Perhaps we should look for shelter and worry about finding the rest of the Inquisition in the morning?” she suggests. Her voice is little more than a crackling whisper, but without the bellowing wind, the mountains are almost eerily quiet, so she does not doubt that they have heard her. Still, it takes them several minutes to respond, long enough that she begins to wonder if she has offended them somehow.

“If we do not catch up with them tonight, we might not find them at all,” Uthvir tells her through gritted teeth, their gaze fixed fiercely out into the night, “Do not be afraid. I am not going to die out here. Neither will you.”

Aili leans into them a bit more, tucking her head up beneath their chin and letting out a long shuddering breath.

“I am not afraid to die.”

Somewhere in the darkness, a lone wolf howls. A beat of silence follows the mournful sound, and the two wayward elves hold their breath in anticipation of what they both know must follow. As expected, a chorus answers the initial cry. A dozen echoing voices calling out from the woods surrounding them.

“I know I just said I wasn’t afraid,” Aili says quietly, tightening her arms around their neck as best she can with all their sharp edges in the way, “But I don’t particularly, _want_ to die, if we can help it.”

“Duly noted,” Uthvir replies wryly, “I suppose we will not find the Inquisition this evening if we let ourselves get eaten first. I will find us a safe hiding place, if there is one to be found.”

They continue on in silence for a while, trying not to think of what might be following them. The crunch of Uthvir's boots in the snow seems almost deafening in the frozen mountain air, and it strikes an odd chord within Aili's thoughts, because they usually move with such subtlety. Sliding across battlefields and barrooms alike with hardly a sound. Like a ghost. Or a spirit.

Aili slips in and out of consciousness as the cold begins to settle into her bones, and she thinks, perhaps, she must have hit her head much harder than she thought. Things are just not making any sense. Every now and then she hears Uthvir's voice, but it is…strange. It has a resonance that trembles straight through her, igniting some primal fear she has no name for. And more than that, the words they murmur under their breath -to her or to themselves she cannot say- are in Elvhen. Not the broken, stilted Elvhen that the Dalish speak, but _true_ Elvhen. The kind that one can only hear in the oldest memories tucked into far flung corners of the Fade, and occasionally clinging to a few precious artifacts that the clans exchange for study.

The sound of it sings in her ears like a song from her childhood. A song she had once loved, but has long since forgotten the words to. But their meaning is not lost on her. Reassurance. Determination. Worry.

For themselves?

…For her?

Her mind swims and her heart aches and, for some reason, the shadows behind Uthvir seem to grow very long. Writhing and shifting shapes. Blotting out the snow like a pair of massive dark wings.

Their edges grow sharper. Teeth and nails as long as knives. The air chills around them, colder now than the wind from earlier, even though their eyes seem to burn like coals. 

The wolf pack howls again, closer this time.

Fear surges in her gut. A dusty gasping roar erupts from somewhere near her ear, almost like a bonfire rushing out across a plain of dry summer grass. It seems to swallow all of her senses.

The world melts into darkness.

~

The second time Aili wakes, it is to a patchwork of dark splintered beams and bright pools of starlight. It takes her a few moments to realize that she is actually looking up at the sky through a wooden roof with several large holes in it. And it takes a few moments more to notice that she is no longer being held. Someone has bundled her up in what appears to be a very worn, and moth-eaten fur rug and laid her out on the floor of whatever building this is.

The same someone seems to be in the process of lighting a fire.

“Did we…find the Inquisition?” she croaks out.

Uthvir glances up from their task and shakes their head at her. 

“This is an old hunting lodge, as far as I can tell,” they say, “It is far from ideal, but I have set wards. The walls may be thin, but the door seems sturdy enough, and I doubt the beasts of the mountains would be so desperate as to try breaking it down for a meal.”

The timber finally catches, but the wood is damp, and the fire emanates more smoke than heat. Still, it is better than before. At the very least, they will probably not get eaten.

“D-do you think anyone will see the smoke and come looking?” Aili wonders, teeth chattering as she makes an attempt to burrow further into her makeshift blanket.

“It is hard to say,” Uthvir hums, still poking at the fire, “It is possible Corypheus’ creatures tracked us through the storm, but it seems unlikely. As for our own allies… They are sure to have their hands full just moving that many people with any sort of haste. I doubt that many resources will be wasted trying to track down two agents who may well have perished defending their flight. That, and our fire is quite small, I doubt such a tiny plume of smoke would be visible from any great distance.”

"B-but…they're our _friends_ ," Aili insists, "At least, some of them are. Varric and Cassandra and Solas wouldn't let them all just abandon us out here. Leliana and Josie will send agents or crows or something, I'm sure."

"They have already abandoned us out here," they point out with a sigh, "Once they are safely out of harm's way, perhaps they might send scouts to try and discover what happened to us, but I would not hold out hope of them finding us tonight."

“It f-figures that the one time Trevelyan’s annoying habit of stalking me all over the place would actually be marginally useful is the one time he c-can’t seem to manage it,” Aili grumbles.

“Somehow, I imagine having the ‘Herald of Andraste’ present would only add to our list of problems,” Uthvir huffs.

“You’re p-probably right, but at the very least, we’d have another fur to bundle up in,” she says, “He never seems to take that ridiculous cloak off.”

“I am not sure the gains outweigh the grievances, in this case,” they smirk, their eyes sparkling with just a hint of mischief, “Besides, there is more than one way to get warm.”

“Hm,” Aili agrees blearily, “If I wasn’t so tired I could… I’m good with fire. Fire spells. I know a nice one for warming your hands, but… Numb. Everywhere. All over. Probably shouldn’t try casting, or the whole place might get set alight.”

“Do you think you might have frostbite?” Uthvir asks with a frown.

“N-not sure,” she shivers, “But if I have it someplace, it would most likely be my feet. It was a b-bad day to wear footwraps.”

Uthvir tuts in disapproval, abandoning the seat by the fire to walk over and pull back the fur covering Aili’s legs. Their brows furrow as they carefully take one of her feet in their hands and begin unwinding the leather wrapped around it. She flinches slightly when their touch moves up over her swollen ankle.

"There seems to be some slight discoloration of the skin, but nothing too serious," they tell her with a sigh, "However, I would be the first to admit that healing such things is not my area of expertise."

"I can heal most of it with magic and some herbs once I rest a bit," Aili says, sounding just as wrung out as she feels, "But for now, just warming them back up slowly should help."

"You have encountered this problem frequently?" Uthvir guesses.

"The clan has had to survive a few tough winters since I became First," she yawns, "Sometimes hunters came back with more than just deer meat and stories. Daewyn nearly lost an ear after falling in a frozen river. Idiot."

Despite the insult, her expression is fond.

"A sibling?" Uthvir asks, slowly moving their hands over her feet one after another.

"He's my best friend, but he might as well be my brother. We grew up together. Thick as thieves," she lets out a relieved sigh and wiggles her toes as a bit of the feeling comes back to them, "What are you doing, exactly? It feels…different from healing magic."

"I am…encouraging the blood flow to your feet," they explain hesitantly. They know she is not overly fond of blood magic, but she would likely find it less distressing than having to lose a few toes later. Such things cannot simply be regrown by healing magic in this age, as far as Uthvir knows.

"You should really save your strength," she tells them. Her expression is holds more concern than disapproval, for the time being. "You honestly look about as worn down as I feel, and I didn't even have to walk here through a blizzard like you did. And you set the wards earlier, too. You should sleep."

"One of us needs to stand watch, and it is hardly going to be you," Uthvir snorts.

"You set wards," she reminds them again, "There isn't much else you can do beyond that. Anything strong enough to break through your magic could probably take either one of us out at this point. We're both hungry and tired and low on mana. Right now, exhaustion and cold are our two biggest concerns. Even if I sleep through the night and wake up strong enough to heal my ankle, I'm hardly going to be capable of carrying you through the snow with all that armor on, and that's exactly the position we're going to find ourselves in if you don't at least try to get a little bit of sleep. You fought a _dragon_ today, Lethallen."

Uthvir frowns, clearly unhappy with the prospect. 

"I suppose, if I prop myself up near the door…" they try.

"You'll be stiff as a board and half frozen by morning," Aili insists, "Just peel of your spiky bits and come share the musty blanket-rug with me. It'll be warmer for both of us." 

"Is that meant to be a come on?" Uthvir wonders with a smirk, though their gaze still speaks of uncertainty.

"Come onto what?" Aili blinks.

"…Never mind," they say with a deep sigh, "I do not know if you have noticed, but I…am not especially fond of…touching. Of being touched, more precisely."

"We've shared a bed plenty of times by now," Aili reminds them, her brow furrowing slightly. In confusion or concern it is hard to say.

"Yes," they concede, "But I was wearing most of my armor and could easily move away if necessary. You do get rather… _clingy_ in your sleep, you know."

"I know," she winces, "This time it really is for the sake of survival and practicality, though, I swear. No ulterior motives. Not that there have been ulterior motives the other times, they just keep giving us quarters with a single bed in them, and I am incomprehensibly grabby. I'm not really sure why I do that in my sleep… You just get used to it when you've got two or three families all sharing an aravel, I guess. No room to be shy about a lack of personal space." 

"I am not _shy_ ," they insist, looking nearly scandalized by the assertion.

"Oh no?" she wonders, biting back a laugh at their expression, "Well, whatever it is about the prospect of trying to keep ourselves warm by sharing a sleeping space that you happen to find objectionable; is there anything we can do to make it easier for you?"

They mull it over for a few moments before glancing up at her with a salacious grin.

"I suppose we could always…bind your hands?" they suggest with an air of feigned innocence.

Aili blinks at them again, clearly surprised, but then she shrugs. Or, at least, Uthvir thinks she shrugs. It's hard to tell when she's all wrapped up in bear skin.

"Okay," she says simply. 

"Okay?" they repeat, slightly dumbfounded, "You would be willing to sacrifice your freedom of movement in perilous circumstances just to get me to sleep?"

"Well, it's just my hands," she shrugs again, "I can still cast with my wrists tied if I really need to, so long as the binding isn't wound too tight. And I don't think it's _that_ perilous. There's no one else in here except you, and you've had plenty of chances to do something terrible to me, if you had had the mind to. I'd rather be a little uncomfortable than risk either of us freezing to death during the night."

They look at her as though they think she is very strange and possibly even a bit mad, but in the end, they simply let out a long breath and begin the process of removing the sharper pieces of their armor. They do not seem particularly happy about it, but Aili supposes that there is not a whole lot to be happy about in this situation. She follows their example, and being fumbling around beneath her fur covering to undo the buckles of her leathers. Her fingers are still cold and stiff, so the process is much trickier than she had initially thought it might be.

"What are you doing?" Uthvir asks when she lets out a little frustrated growl and draws their attention back to her.

"Well, my armor is hardly much more comfortable than yours," she points out, still fighting a particularly stubborn clasp, "It will be much easier to share body heat with skin to skin contact."

"Are you suggesting we get… _naked_?" Uthvir baulks.

"No, no, just the top halves!" Aili insists, having the grace to blush a bit, "I mean, it probably _would_ be warmer if we… But that's completely unnecessary! It should be fine to just sleep back to back."

"I…would prefer not to," Uthvir says tightly, looking very much like they would like to put all of their armor back on straight away.

"It'll be fine," Aili cajoles, "We'll tie my wrists, so I don't grab you, and I'll even promise to keep my eyes shut, if it helps."

Uthvir is quite for a minute and the room seems to get much darker. The shadows stretch, and Aili shudders and the temperature drops inexplicably. The whole building rattles as an ill wind blows in from somewhere, and a large pile of snow falls through the roof. Directly onto the struggling fire.

"Fine," Uthvir hisses out, agitated and a bit wild around the eyes, "Close your eyes, and do not open them until I tell you to."

Aili nods in understanding. She shuts her eyes and tugs the rest of her armor off and shoves it outside of her makeshift blanket. She worms her way out of her tunic afterwards and balls it up into something of a pillow to lay her head on. And then she holds very still, and waits for Uthivr.

They seem to take a very long time, and Aili is nearly asleep when she finally feels them take hold of her hands. She's not certain what they are tying her with, but the fabric is soft, and the binding is loose enough that she does not worry about it restricting her blood flow. The worst part is undoubtedly when they pull back the bear skin in order to join her, and the coldness of the air inside their little hut instantly starts her shivering again.

But then Uthvir is there. A warm solid presence, the smooth skin of their chest pressed flush against her spine. Folding around her like a second blanket as their arms curl up about her own, pinioning her wrists with deft hands.

Well. This was not the position she had envisioned.

"Um," she begins, not even sure what she is about to say, only that she is embarrassed about it already.

"Sleep," Uthvir cuts her off, firm but quiet. Their voice is a puff of hot air against her neck, tickling the hairs just behind her ear. It makes her shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold, although she cannot exactly pinpoint why. "Your skin feels like ice. Get whatever rest you can, and when daylight comes, we will catch up with the Inquisition." 

"…Alright," she agrees with a whisper.

Despite her acquiescence, Aili does not, in fact, fall asleep right away. She is exhausted, and decidedly less cold than she was earlier, but while she cannot precisely say that she is _uncomfortable_ with their current proximity…she cannot stop thinking about it either. She feels hyper-aware of every slight shift of their body. The feeling of their heartbeat at her back. The slow rise and fall of their chest as they breathe. The faint smell of leather and something citrus that seems to linger around them.

Maybe this was not the best idea.

It is strange that such a thing should bother her, though. It is hardly the first time they have shared a sleeping space. She said as much herself, earlier. And she has slept snuggled up to people almost all of her life. Perhaps it is simply that her hands are bound. Perhaps it is strange because it is Uthvir, and they do not enjoy this sort of thing, and their discomfort is spilling over onto her. Perhaps it is because this particular pose seems so…intimate.

Like lovers. 

But they are not. Not lovers or spouses or even close friends. They are two people with a vague agreement to pose as a married couple for the sake of convenience. Or in Uthvir's case, possibly just for amusement. There is a certain amount of comradery between them. A touch of fondness. A dash of trust. But that is all.

Isn't it?

Aili starts slightly at the feeling of fingers gently running over her right shoulder blade.

"My apologies," Uthvir says quietly, "I thought you had fallen asleep."

"Not yet," Aili whispers back, "Did you need something?"

"No, I…" they pause, "I was merely wondering if your shoulder had healed completely yet. You might have managed to avoid getting shot with an arrow again, but it would be…unfortunate, if anything that happened today had reopened your previous injury."

"That was weeks ago," Aili reminds them, a bit surprised by their concern, "You watched Adan take the stiches out yourself."

"My experience with magebane is limited," Uthvir admits, "I was unsure how long it might take to completely leave someone's bloodstream. I did not know if it might permanently slow your body's natural healing capabilities…"

"…Well, it still gets a bit stiff some mornings," Aili says, trying to sound reassuring, but still a little baffled to be even having this conversation, "But it's really just a scar at this point. Not even a very big one." 

"Big or small, I am sorry to have had some part in its creation," they say solemnly.

"It's really not a big deal," she insists with a chuckle, "And now I get to hear you tell everyone how cool I was when I saved your life."

"…You were, indeed," they agree with a sigh.

Aili makes a pleased hum in the back of her throat, and shifts a bit in their arms. Snuggling further into their loose embrace. Uthvir moves enough to accommodate the change, tucking their face somewhere in the mess of her hair. For a few minutes there is nothing but deep even breathing. Slow steady heartbeats.

"…Thank you," Aili says at last, her voice rough and drowsy, dangling on the edge of sleep, "For not leaving me behind."

"Get some rest," Uthvir whispers, but she thinks she feels their hands tighten on her a bit.

And then, after a pause, they inexplicably begin to hum. It is almost odd enough to jar her back into wakefulness, but their voice is smooth and soothing, and the tune is surprisingly pleasant. It takes her a few moments more to realize that it is _her_ song. The one she always sings to herself when she's happy and things are going as they should be.

They were listening to her close enough to memorize it? When did that happen?

It is a mystery that will have to wait, however, because between the warmth of their shared body heat, and the soft sound of Uthvir's voice in her ears, Aili finally finds herself drifting off to sleep.

~

The third time she wakes, there is cool gray sunlight pouring in through the holes in the cabin roof, and she is alone in her little nest of fur, huddled into a tight ball. The sky is clear. Her hands are unbound.

Uthvir is already awake and fully clothed and armored, roasting something over a small but much more successful fire than the one from the night before. They shoot her a smirk as she sits up and scooches towards them like some strange sort of giant caterpillar. She's fairly certain she looks like she just rolled down half a mountainside, but appearances are far down the list of her priorities right now. Especially when whatever they are cooking smells so good.

"A rabbit built its nest nearby after the humans abandoned the place," Uthvir explains when they catch the direction of her gaze, "Unfortunate for it, but lucky for us."

"I think I'm ready for a bit of good luck after everything that happened last night," Aili scrapes out.

Uthvir nods in agreement.

"Do you think you have the reserves to heal your ankle?" they ask. "If not, I could probably manage once I eat a bit. I am not as proficient with the healing arts as you are, however."

"I think I can manage," she confirms.

"Excellent," they reply, "I spotted what seems to be smoke rising up from just beyond the next mountain pass. A decent place to defend from a potential attack, but a foolish gamble for a group of people meant to be in hiding."

"Scared humans are rarely adept at subtlety," Aili snorts.

"You have little room to judge," Uthvir notes.

"Hey!"

"Regardless, I should think we should find the rest of the Inquisition by mid-morning," they continue.

"Ready for a hero's welcome?" she grins.

They match her expression with a definite air of smugness.

"It is no less than we deserve."

"Think it will finally get Trevelyan to leave me alone?" Aili wonders hopefully.

Uthvir snorts.

"Absolutely not."


End file.
